The Night Dark and Drear
by Rostov23
Summary: Not all of Holmes' early cases met with success. One night Watson discovers that there may be a very good reason why Holmes is so distrustful of women...
1. Der Erlkonig

_This was directly after The Musgrave Ritual. Before Holmes had even heard of Ricoletti of the club foot or his abominable wife; had reached the crowning glory of his career by recognizing the significance of a second stain upon a wooden floor, or entered into the grotesque and chaotic lives of people such as the pitiable Hilton Cubitt, or Grimsby Roylott of Stoke Moran. There were many other strange characters soon to come parading through the sitting room of our shared flat on Baker Street. But this was before all the Trelawney Hopes, Cadogan Wests, and Tadpole Phelpes. Before even The Woman's picture held its sacred spot amongst his files._

 _It is a story never before published for the simple reason that I, trusted friend and sometime tolerated biographer, was not there._

 _I had just come to live with Holmes, in January of 1881, and I spent many restful evenings with him at the flat overlooking Baker Street, after many adventuresome and tiring days. It was not uncommon to find Holmes and myself seated across from each other at the fire, he with his briarwood pipe and I with my cigar, reading the agony columns and sipping innumerable cups of Mrs. Hudson's tea._

 _On this particular night the ash was thick on the ground, and the room smudged with our combined smoky exhalations, when he fixed me with those grey eyes, sometimes so manic, but now hooded, swimming in the pale gas light, his deathly pallor warmed by the orange half-light of the fire._

 _I suppose now that the 7% solution had had its way with him, but at the time I did not suspect as much. Perhaps I thought his arm-chair more comfortable than usual, or less so. Whatever the cause, it was on this night that he finally told me his secret, a secret so guarded, so rare, that even I could give it no credit until confronted with proof._

* * *

The lengthy nights of summer were giving way to the first chills of autumn when Holmes found himself visited, alone in his cramped rooms on Montague Street, by a woman of no uncommon bearing. The call of newspaper hawkers and the clip of horses' hooves drifted up from the street below and hung in the prolonged silence that lasted well after the door had closed behind her.

"Mr. Holmes," she began, after the hazy interior of Holmes' rooms had settled them both, taking away the novelty of the sight of each other. "My name is Vias Rushford. I am here because I am in terrible need of your particular help."

* * *

 _"Vias?" I interrupted. "How unfortunate. What was she like?"_

 _"What?" Holmes turned from his contemplation of the fire to frown at me._

 _"Miss Rushford. What was she like?"_

 _"Oh, Watson! You are sometimes as simple as a new barn cat." He cast his eyes around the room again, and then crossed his arms over his breast, drawing mightily at his unlit pipe. "She was not obscenely tall," he said after a moment of thought. "Nor was she short enough to be considered petite."_

 _"How frightfully informative of you to say, old boy," I grumbled. "I was simply curious. What did she want?"_

 _"Ha. What any woman wants: to last in a man's living memory for all time."_

 _"Oh, well. If that's all. Would you mind passing the coal scuttle?"_

 _"You've smoked all your own cigars, then?"_

 _"I have - with your help, Holmes. Now pass it over."_

 _He pulled the scuttle off the corner of the hearth and held it out to me, casting his own pipe down on one of the many spare plates that littered the floor. I selected one and lit it off a glowing coal from the fire. Pushing the coal back into the grate I settled back and gave him my full attention, since I could tell nothing else of any reasonable nature was going to happen until I did._

 _"I'm sorry old boy," I soothed, not wishing to derail him. "Tell me all. What did this obscenely non-petite woman want?"_

 _"Why, access, of course, Watson."_

 _"Access?"_

 _"Access! To my not unintimidating brain. For the straight steel blade of my logic to cut through her feminine malaise."_

 _"Ah. Of course. These were her words?"_

 _"Hers were somewhat more to the point."_

* * *

"I cannot pay you, but would instead be forever in your debt."

Holmes' pipe went slack in his teeth, the bowl hitting his chest with a gentle thud. The clock ticked loudly from the wall by the door. Finally, for lack of anything helpful to say, he simply said, "Vias?"

"Yes sir, but most everyone who knows me calls me Kit."

"Ah." The pipe flicked upwards again, and a cloud of bluish smoke billowed from the side of his mouth, some to be drawn into his arched nostrils, while the rest encircled his head and drifted upwards finally to add to the already prevalent stain in the ceiling paint.

"Your mother no doubt is a lover of wildflowers. Since Vias is the assumed root word for Viola, the scientific name for all species in the family Violaceae. I can only assume Kit because it is a reference to one of the more common varieties of Violet, Kit-run-in-the-fields to be precise."

"Or because my middle name is Katherine." She removed her hat and placed it on the table, laying beside it her clutch and damp umbrella. "But you may choose to believe whatever takes your fancy Mr. Holmes. It is never my intention to disrupt a man's confidence in his own reasoning. I find more often than not it spoils the mood."

Her eyes scanned the room, glossed here and there over broken dishware, cutlery scattered on the floor, vials, and bookshelves stuffed to overflowing. Finally she came to rest on the vacant armchair across the fireplace from Holmes. "And yes, I will sit, thank you. It is very gallant of you to ask."

And so she sat, crossing her hands and ankles neatly, and stared at the detective with a most forward and disarming look.

"Do you like violets, Mr. Holmes?"

He leaned back in his chair, legs tucked snugly under him, and continued to smoke that long disputatious-looking briarwood of his. "Less and less," he said between his teeth.

"I adore them. Or the names for them at least. Pink-eyed John, Love-lies-bleeding, Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me -"

"Yes. Thank you." His nostrils flared. "I am familiar with the over two hundred common names given to that wayside flower, pray, let us not innumerate them all."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Just as you wish. I am in need of advice." She leaned towards him then, hands clutching each other, white-knuckled in her lap. "I need the sort of help that only a man such as yourself can give."

* * *

 _He found her unsettling, of that I am quite sure, since Holmes' omissions are more telling than most men's confessions. He told me her hair would have been perfect, if she had not carelessly allowed so many strands of it to escape her chignon. Her eyes were blue, noted because only three to five percent of people with dark hair also had such light eyes. Her hands were long and slender, not unlike his own. Lips petal pink and not too full. She suffered from a certain regularity of feature that marked her out as what society would deem beautiful, and probably would have been so, had it not been for her absurd confidence in her own intelligence. "Which-" he informed me, "-was highly unwomanly."_

 _I nodded across the fire. "Indeed! How dare she?!"_

 _"Silence Watson, I am not finished. The worst is yet to come."_

* * *

Holmes observed her minutely for a moment, before saying "My dear lady, I am all attention."

"I am being followed."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Daily."

"Have you any inkling by whom?"

"I do not know him, but he has been there every day for the last week. Never on the same city block as me, but always one behind."

"A ruffian?"

"A well-dressed man. Every day when I leave – "

"- From the stage door of the theatre."

"I'm…I'm sorry?"

"I believe the orchestra members still exit the stage door with the actors. Surely they don't let musicians go out the front door with the audience."

"This is true Mr. Holmes, but how –"

"Through various and sundry means Ms. Rushford." His hands fluttered in the air around him, fingers pointing to various aspects of her person, flicking, eventually coming to rest on his slicked back hair, where they smoothed, and then steepled together in front of his lips.

"Actually, I was going to ask how you landed upon the opera. I could be with the symphony."

"Not good enough."

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow at him. "Indeed?"

"You have a slight dusting of white powder across your left shoulder. It is the base for many theatrical make-ups. I use it myself on occasion. But if it were something _you_ had to wear, it would undoubtedly be on both sides of your collar, from where they rub against your neck.

* * *

 _"And what a neck Watson, a veritable tower of David, built in rows of stone."_

 _"Really old boy? Poetry?"_

 _"For some, one must resort to biblical praise."_

* * *

"This however seems to be from someone else's cheek," he continued. "An embrace on the way out? An actress acquaintance no doubt, since a man would never be so forward. The symphony has no need of actors. The opera does. Your fingers have that spatulaing at the end common in those that play a stringed instrument. Your chin still has the indent of your violin. You have come straight from work. I heard no hansom arrive before you entered, therefore you have walked. The mud on your boots proves it. The opera house is not close, but not too far for a determined walker to arrive at about this time after a matinee. By this I assume you have not the money for the cab fare, otherwise, why walk in the rain? And yet you love what you do. Why else devote so much of your time to the study of it, and take the trouble of getting to know your co-workers in such an intimate fashion. No. I believe if you were more talented, you would have risen higher."

Kit jolted to her feet, cheeks pink, eyes blazing. She took a few quick breaths to calm herself, not breaking her stare with him.

"You push me Mr. Holmes."

"Theatrics Miss Rushford. It is the truth, and therefore not worth getting upset about."

"These rooms do not strike me as the consulting office of a particularly successful man either. Come Mr. Holmes, those words smack of pettiness. I would expect better from a fellow violin player."

"I make no secret of my love of the instrument. The case lies open on my desk, as you can see."

"I can indeed. I see an instrument more often plucked than played. I see a man more interested in cords, not _music_ , a bow badly mistreated and rarely rosined, and you sir, should be ashamed to play so _petulantly_ upon such a beautiful and rare instrument, though I am hardly surprised, as those who have no worries about their income rarely prize such treasured possessions."

She swept towards the door, gathering her belongings from the table as she went. Regardless of how quickly she moved, Holmes moved faster. His palm landed against the door just as she pulled it open, forcing it shut again. It was not until this moment that her height registered with him. He was no more than half a head taller than her. He took a long deep breath before bringing his face an inch closer.

"Petulant?"

"You have obviously dropped it to the ground more than once. The scratches are evident, even from here."

"And my income?"

"It is a _Stradivarius_ Mr. Holmes. If I could afford such an instrument, I would not be playing at what is to your mind, the lowly Opera house."

Holmes' lips parted, revealing straight white teeth, grey eyes searching hers unabashedly.

"Play it."

"What?" She drew away from him, until her back was pressed against the door. He wondered if she was considering how long it would take someone to get up here if she screamed.

"It is a treasured instrument, as you say," he continued. "Show me what you can do with it."

Holmes left the doorway then, crossing back to the couch, and threw himself across it with no attempt at decorum at all. Instead the back of his hand came to his brow, and then slid down over his closed eyes. Obviously he was prepared to listen.

Kit Froze. Her hand was on the knob, her wrist exerting pressure. He felt he could see into her mind at that moment. It _was_ a Stradivarius. And she might go the rest of her life before running into another chance to play one. Especially in so odd a place as the living room of a man who fancied himself the world's greatest detective.

She went to the desk and picked the instrument up, gently fitting it under her chin. It must feel odd, of course, as every instrument new to the player invariably does. She fingered the bow for a moment, turning her mind over what to play.

She let the bow rest on the strings for a moment, before taking a deep breath and pulling into Franz Shubert's rendition of "Der Erlkonig" for solo violin. Holmes eyes snapped open as the manic notes flew from the instrument at the breakneck speed of a galloping horse. He watched her wrist flicking the bow skillfully back and forth, while her elbow flared and dropped. Her fingers were a twitch of movement, subtle, perfect, the music pushing, grabbing him and dragging him along with it. Something welled in him, threatening to burst and overflow.

He could imagine the father of the story riding through the drear, desperately clinging to his son, pursued by the Elf King, the long strides of the horse's flight, the cries of the terrified boy, and the horror of the homecoming, the father arriving in his courtyard to find his son dead in his arms. Holmes felt a delicious shiver run up his spine.

In a slight lull he realized that his lips were parted, mouth open. His hand, moving in a rhythm of its own accord, halted, balled into a first at his side. His eyes cut over to Kit, assuring himself that she had not seen him. He was satisfied at a glance that she had not. Her eyes were closed. Transported, the sensations hit him in waves of impatience, thick trepidation, scintillating joy.

He stood suddenly, and the bow shrieked to a halt over the strings. They stood eyeing each other, panting.

"Why did you choose to play that?"

"I thought you might appreciate it."

He reached over and grabbed the violin from her hands, noting how the wood was still warm from her touch. It occurred to him how humiliating this detail was, how lewdly intimate, that her body had touched his in a way he had not foreseen or allowed.

"Please leave. I am no longer seeing clients today."

"But…What of the man following me?"

"If he is there again next week come back and see me. I suspect he is an admirer with nothing more than autographs on his mind."

He slammed the violin case shut, and she gathered her things on the table, moving quickly to distance herself from his sudden vehemence. He wheeled and stalked after her towards the door.

"Mr. Holmes, please, I'm sorry if I have offended you -"

"Nonsense. It's just that there are so many demands on my time."

Kit jumped as he flung open the sitting room door and ushered her out into the hall. "I would call you a cab of course, but we both know you would not use it."

"But…"

With that he shut the door in her face.

* * *

 _I will say this about my dear friend, that although his actions are often impulsive, even arrogant, they are always heart-felt._

 _"But, why ever would you do such a thing, Holmes?!" I threw the stub of my cigar into the fire with indignation. Who would have believed that even Holmes could behave so badly to a woman in need of aid?_

 _"At the time I saw no danger in her situation. Her concern seemed unfounded."_

 _"But to throw her out the door, my dear fellow, what were you thinking?"_

 _"Why, that I must be rid of her immediately, that her continued presence could only be detrimental to both of us."_

 _My shock must have been visible in my face, for he paused a moment, letting his gaze rest in the flames. "Because she saw me, Watson, this woman. She came unbidden and un-looked for to my very home, to my inner sanctuary, and recognized me, so easily. It was as if my strong built and lasting defenses were non-existent. I am a man who does not wish to be touched."_

 _"Was her playing really like that?"_

 _"Yes. Her playing was like that."_

 _The fire seethed in the hearth. An ember skittered out onto the worn red carpet at our feet. I crushed it out with the toe of my shoe._

 _"It sounds like you gave her almost no chance to explain her circumstances to you."_

 _"Watson, many would consider Der Erlkonig as one of the most difficult violin pieces ever composed. Obviously she had made mistakes, she isn't a virtuoso, but...I did allow myself to be distracted."_

 _"And so what did you do?"_

 _"I locked my door to her. Confident that our paths would never cross again."_

 _"And did they?"_

 _"The next morning over breakfast I received a telegram from one of her friends in the orchestra."_

 _"She had seen her man again?"_

 _"She had been attacked by him shortly after leaving my rooms."_

 _"My dear boy, how awful!"_

 _"She was unconscious in a bed at Charing Cross Hospital. He had crushed both her hands."_


	2. Broken Bones

_It has often disturbed me that I know so little of what my friend and colleague was like as a very young man. We did not meet until well into our twenties, and I supposed I was content to think of him as having always been that way, fully formed, as if he had sprung from somewhere already autonomous and functional._

 _However, imagination can assist me here, as well as assumption. I assume that many of the traits and eccentricities that mark him out today beset him in his youth. I believe he was, if possible, even thinner then. He was an avid boxer, graceful fencer, voracious reader, though on admittedly narrow topics, and a staunch bohemian. I believe Montague Street was a transformative time for him. He spent most of it in waiting for clients to seek him out in need of his services. He roamed the streets by night, wrote monographs by day, and guarded his youth and energy for future use._

 _Though always dressed impeccably, I suspect that his yearning for recognition caused him to be reckless with himself and others. Not only emotionally, for Holmes has never been one to care about stepping on toes, but he seemed more willing to expose those of his acquaintance to danger through his inattentiveness. The danger hidden in the everyday occurrence was not yet apparent to him. This is what Kit Rushford taught him. Or at least her attack served as his first dire lesson._

 _Her friend's telegraph on his crumb-covered breakfast table put a pin through his brain._

 _ **Mr. Holmes, I am writing on behalf of my friend Kit Rushford. It is my understanding that it was her intention to visit you yesterday on a matter of some importance. She was found this morning in a battered state outside the stage door of the theatre, and has been moved to Charing Cross Hospital. As she is alone in the world, and I can think of no one else to inform, I am hoping you can shed some light on this tragic situation.**_

 _ **Yours sincerely**_

 _ **Lucy Tilby**_

 _He saw immediately from the shaky signature at the bottom of the small square of paper that Miss Trilby was well-educated, left handed, and in heart-rending earnest._

 _Holmes did not even take his frock coat on the way out the door, but hurried down the public street on the way to the telegram office in his shirtsleeves._

* * *

What a disconcerting thing it was for Kit Rushford to regain consciousness in a drab and overcrowded hospital ward to find Sherlock Holmes sitting cross-legged on a wooden chair by her bedside. With his cross tie askew and his hair hung loose on his forehead, he had the unsettling look of a hunting bird waiting to descend upon its prey.

She took in her prone position in the narrow metal bed in the corner, one of many in a double row with their headboards pressed against opposite walls. The sheet under her felt gritty, the sheet over her clammy and frayed. A line of tables ran down the center of the room, where it terminated in front of a set of double-doors covered in chipped green paint. These tables where piled with equipment: metal chamber pots, jars of foul smelling ointment and hastily folded bandages. Nurses bustled in and out occasionally, in light blue uniforms and white aprons, giving the inhabitance of the beds a cursory glance over before moving on to another ward.

Kit winced at the sour smell of sickness in the air. Someone was moaning farther down the row on her left. A hacking cough sounded as well, rising intermittently over the quiet sobs of someone across the room. The coal dust encrusted windows gave in very little light.

"Miss Rushford," Holmes said, bringing her back to herself, "you have awaken."

"Mr. Holmes. Perceptive as ever, I see." As the fog in her brain began to dissipate, the pain crept in to replace it. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to suppress a cry.

When she opened them again it was to see he wore a faint smile. "I'm glad to see that even a head injury has not affected your caustic mode of self-expression."

"It has affected my mood, though." Her breath shuddered in and out. "I have not the patience to deal with you, Mr. Holmes. You will please do me the favour of going away."

Holmes edged forward in his seat, eyes roving her face. "You _are_ angry, then?"

She issued a short bitter laugh. "I am in agony. It is very close to being the same thing." She tried to shift then, but found her arms pressed to her sides, tucked in by her blanket. Her pale face turned to him, childlike with sudden fear. "Why do my fingers feel so hot?"

"You don't remember the events of last night?"

"I remember you sending me away, sir."

She saw how startled he was by the accusation in her look, how his self-confidence disappeared under her stare. He fought to keep his voice controlled when he replied "It was wrong of me to do so. Please allow me to make amends."

"I have no interest in your acute sense of guilt, sir. Please. I am very tired. I don't need your protection now, Mr. Holmes. It does me no good."

"I'm afraid that's not quite true, Miss Rushford."

Her face under the bruises became paler still, and she moistened her lips with her tongue. She knew something was wrong. She could feel it in her stomach. She could feel her pulse pounding in her back, flaring in her armpits and temples. The look on his face frightened her more than the pain. He was too serious, too solicitous. She tried to move again, to pull her hands up from her sides, but a surge of pain held her still, caused her to swallow reflexively.

"My hands are on fire. Did I fall?"

"You were attacked. I'm sorry to have to tell you, but I believe you may still be in danger. At least, I can't rule it out until I look into the situation further. Can you tell me what you _do_ remember?"

She considered this, unwilling for him to stay, terrified that he would leave. The memory of his sitting room door slamming in her face kept her silent.

He let out an explosive sigh, dragging his fingers through his already messy hair. "Miss Rushford, I am not a good man," he tried again. "But I am a brilliant one. Please let me help you."

She blinked at him, startled by his sheer ego. It was so pronounced as to be disarming. "I remember leaving your rooms," she conceded, as she struggled with the faint memory. The air here was so close and stifling, her hospital issued gown was over-starched, and rubbed against her neck painfully. "I remember making it back to the theatre and completing the evening show. I don't remember anything out of the ordinary at the theatre."

"Which theatre?"

"The Royal Olympic, it's at Drury lane -"

"And Wych Street, where it meets Newcastle. I know it."

"I live on East Tenter Street. It's a fair walk from the theatre, but the houses are respectable, and I am able to afford a room over a tailor's shop."

"Near the police station?"

"Right across. I usually go by way of Fenchurch Street, but yesterday I went by Eastcheap."

"What frightened you about Fenchurch?"

"Nothing. I wanted a change of scenery. I was going to skirt around Trinity Square and go up Coopers Row to John Street. I…well, I was still upset from our exchange that afternoon, and I wanted the extra walk. I had just come abreast of Gunpowder Alley when it happened."

"Gunpowder Alley doesn't join John Street."

"No. It runs parallel. There are several ways through though, if you know which doorways to use."

"Miss Rushford. How daring."

"You are patronizing me again Mr. Holmes. I have eyes. I can see people come and go. I have never been down that alley myself, but that doesn't mean I don't know what kind of trade goes on there."

"My apologies," he had the decency to look contrite. "Please continue."

"But that's all. I had just turned onto John Street when I felt something behind me. There was a hand I think, on my back, a fist, perhaps. I remember hearing breathing, and something against my neck. It tickled."

"Fabric?"

"Hair I think."

"Long and soft?"

"No. Short. Prickly. I had a flash of my father as he tucked me in when I was a child."

"Did your father have a mustache?"

"He did."

"Did you smell anything?"

"Tar. Citrus I think."

"Go on."

"There's very little else. It all happened so fast. My violin smashed…" She shuddered again at this, a spasm running through her. This drew a small sound from him. His hand reached out and hovered an inch from her face, almost ready to descend onto her cool cheek. She watched him stop himself with an effort, and drop his hand back to his lap. 'Of course,' she thought, 'I must look a fright.'

Her chestnut hair was tangled under the back of her neck, since the doctor had not released her chignon of the day before. The hospital gown settled in the hollow valleys of her spare frame. Her collarbones jutted out at the opening of the collar. The pulse at the base of her throat must have been visible to him. Despite her best efforts, she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, not only from pain, but the sheer anger that he had dared to come here and see her like this, when she would rather have kept herself hidden.

He dragged his eyes away from her and fixed them to a spot on the wall above her head, but not before she caught sight of a look that made her tremble. It was an avenging look, overtly male, that spoke of naked violence and protection. She felt her blood hum in recognition, and was grateful that he had drawn away before he could see how dangerously affected she was.

"Are you absolutely sure that the violin was destroyed?" He asked, easing himself away from her and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I saw it go to pieces," she confirmed.

"Interesting. _That_ is significant."

She lifted her arms again, and this time was able to get them out from under the blanket, holding her hands up to look at them for the first time. "Oh, my God." She started into a sitting position, staring wildly at the bandages covering her fingers from sight. Holmes took her shoulders in both hands and ease her back down. "Please, Miss Rushford." He went further. "Katherine."

Another intimacy he obviously did not want. "Do not distress yourself unduly. I have talked to the doctor. He says it looks worse than it is. "

"Oh, God. Will I play again? When will I be able to play?"

"Your string hand is badly strained, but with proper rest and gentile practice it should come to function much as it did before. Your bow hand is another matter. It _is_ broken in several places."

The ramifications of this settled on her. She trembled under his fingers, and he took his hands away as though her touch might burn him. Kit was surprised how lonely the absence of his touch left her. She realized that she didn't know him. She wasn't even really sure she liked him, but here was there. Not comforting so much as _present_ , determined it seemed not to be pushed away. Something in his eyes told her he truly did feel responsible for her current troubles. Who but a fellow musician could understand the magnitude of her loss? Her tears may have been for the theft of her livelihood, but the soul-crushing weight of fear that settled on her heart was in response to the loss of her love. Her unknown attacker had taken away her ability to do the one thing that brought her joy and made her feel human.

"How long will it take to heal? _Will_ it heal?"

"The outcome here in a public hospital is uncertain. These places are more aptly referred to as gateways to death, rather than institutions of healing. The best thing would be a private clinic where a specialist can re-break your hand and set it properly."

"I haven't the money for a private clinic Mr. Holmes."

"Neither do I."

"Then I am lost."

A half-smile quirked the side of his mouth. "You do certainly have a feminine flare for the dramatic. On the contrary, Miss Rushford, if the hospital system refuses you proper official help, then it is up to me to offer it to you unofficially."

"I am not letting you go anywhere near my hands."

"I should say not. I mean to take you to someone who knows a great deal more than me."

She took a moment to consider this, glancing over the other crowded beds to see if any of the nurses were on the ward.

"Mr. Holmes, do you mean to kidnap me?"

"I mean to abscond with you."

"It is the same thing."

"And yet absconding sounds less vulgar. Come, if you can walk, then I suggest we go." He waited. "Can you walk?"

"I believe so. You want us to parade right out the front door?"

"Unless you wish to make use of the window."

"And is there a plan in place for after we leave?"

"Miss Rushford, I may live in squalor, but I have family members in high places. Now, I have your clothes bundled here. Can you dress yourself?"

"Do I have another option?"

"I could assist you. My research into bruising time in the freshly dead has led me to make extensive studies of the corpses of both male and female victims. I am as clinical a bystander as you will likely ever come across."

She tried to hide her expression of alarm, which was followed quickly by a smothered half-smile. He seemed to be in earnest, and she found it fit in perfectly with the image of him that his continued presence forced her to create. She had always been a most intuitive person, since childhood she had frightened people with her ability to pinpoint peoples past actions and motivations based on the slightest clues that she could gather in their dress or conversation. One of the things that had impressed her first about Holmes was his ability to take her childhood parlor trick and make a career out of it. She could therefore tell that he was in earnest with his proposition, and naïve enough not to understand how socially inappropriate it was. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt therefore, and said "As much as I appreciate the sentiment Mr. Holmes, I believe I would prefer to try my utmost to dress myself," instead of screaming in fear for her life.

"Very well."

He jumped from his chair. There was a folding screen a by one of the tables, and he brought this over to her and spread it as wide as possible, leaving her clothing at the foot of her bed. Kit swung her legs out gingerly, and pausing every few minutes to let the throbbing in her lower limbs subside, struggled through the intricate process of fastening her clothing about her. The corset she discarded altogether, as putting one on single-handed was completely impossible.

Not for the first time, she sent a silent prayer heavenward for her simple taste in style. During the whole endeavor, Holmes stood sentinel on the other side of the screen. She could hear the creak of one of his polished shoes and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and the rhythmic sound of his quiet shallow breathing.

* * *

The hansom rumbled along the roughly paved streets of the theatre district. The smells of street food, warm horses and humanity drifted to them through the open windows of the cab. There was a stiff wind from the Northwest that afternoon, and the smell of the curdled Thames came to them accompanied by the cries of a group of ragged children as they ran down the street, pursued by a red faced grocer, puffing and groaning as his apron flapped out behind him, sweating and laboring after them.

Her shoulder bumped his again and his eyes came in off the scenery, where the surroundings were slowly giving way to the more mellow streets of upper-class neighborhoods.

Kit kept her hands curled tightly in her lap, the bandages making it impossible for her to brace herself and stop any sideways movements as the cab rocked and jostled them along. She noticed that every time she was thrown helplessly into him a muscle jumped at the corner of his jaw. She assumed this was because he found it annoying and wished her far away. She felt guilty noticing such things about him, since she knew he would consider it an intrusion. He seemed to shun any kind of recognition of parts of himself that did not stem from his brain. It made all her discoveries about him at this close distance guilty secrets. The small swirl of hair at the nape of his neck that was only visible now that he was without pomade. The smell of his aftershave was provocative, his breath heavy with burnt tobacco. She could also tell that he shaved himself. However studious he was, it was obvious that his face was not maintained by a barber, making the choice of aftershave his own. She wondered what it was about this particular scent that appealed to him.

"Who is Lucy Tilby?"

She stared, guilty that something of her thoughts might have snuck onto her face. "She is a friend of mine from the theatre."

"A fellow musician?"

"Yes. We sit beside each other."

The hansom pulled to a stop and Holmes jumped out onto the street, leaving his hand on the open door to bar her way.

"No, please stay here. I will go inside and get him. Today the mountain will come to Mohammed."

"Where are we?" The street was crowded with somber stone buildings, swept clean of debris, with high mullioned windows and imposing doors daring anyone to approach without proper breeding and accreditation.

"The Diogenes Club. I sent a telegram to my brother Mycroft this morning to warm him that I might be in need of his help. Since women are not allowed inside, I will go in a fetch him for you. If I can convince him to move from his chair."

He motioned for the cabbie to wait and then bounded up the stairs two at a time.

Kit closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on anything other than the throbbing in her arms. She willed herself to move the fingers of her left hand. She felt the fingers flex and release several times, but her right hand remained stubbornly motionless. The pit opened up inside her again, and she could not draw her mind away from it, no matter how hard she tried. Even though she knew that no amount of worry would bring the life back to her hands. Her only hope seemed to be in trusting this scarecrow of a man from Montague Street. The thought was unsettling to say the least.

The carriage rocked slightly as the door was pulled open. Holmes came into sight for a brief moment, before a hand shoved him out of the way, and then a bundle of scarf and overcoat and thin grey hair was heaving into the seat next to her, easing down a corpulent frame and smoothing his overcoat over his knees. Kit looked up into the laconic grey eyes of this older Holmes, who leaned his gold-topped cane between his legs.

Sherlock stayed out in the street, one hand braced against the cab door. "Miss Rushford, this is my brother Mycroft. If there is anyone who can help us, it is he."

Mycroft Holmes inclined his head slightly. His rounded features gave him the look of a favored grandfather or uncle. He had the long square Holmes forehead, regular hooded features and florid cheeks. His eyes lacked the manic energy of his younger brother. His voice when he spoke had more gravel in it.

"When I received your note telling me that you had gotten a girl in trouble, Sherlock, I rather assumed you meant it in a more common sense. But I see once again you were obtuse."

"Mycroft -" Sherlock started, before the elder Holmes waved his brother into silence.

"Mycroft?" Kit echoed.

"Yes my dear. I'm afraid Sherlock and Mycroft are two of the more normal names in our family. Our older brother's name is quite absurd."

"Older brother?"

"Sherlock here tells me that you are in need of special care."

"As I'm sure you can see for yourself, brother." Sherlock put in from the street. He pulled a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his waist coat along with a small box of similar design filled with matches. He lit the cigarette and replaced both cases in their original pockets. He inhaled deeply, and the smoke trickled out his nose. "Miss Rushford is an exceptional violinist, and must not loose the use of her hands."

Mycroft's eyes flicked from his brother to Kit, noting her reaction to the younger man's words of praise. She suddenly felt what it was like to be a bug under a microscope.

"Really, Sherlock, your egoism and eccentricity does push me a trifle too far some days. This woman's clothing is in disarray, your own is non-existent it seems. Where the devil is your coat? What the devil have you done to your hair?! The pair of you look like wandering gypsies. And now I am to be drawn into this sordid affair?! To clean up your mess, brother mine, once again?! Does this have anything to do with that detective agency you are trying to make a go of? Because I told you that was nothing but foolishness!"

"You sound like Father," Sherlock pouted.

"And you are acting like Mother. It is insufferable."

Sherlock threw up his hands and walked away from the door, back onto the pavement, smoking furiously.

Kit eyed the door handle at her side, considering how fast she could run on such shaky legs. "I'm sorry gentlemen. I think I should leave and go back to the hospital. I'm afraid I am feeling rather faint."

"Wait." Mycroft stayed her with a hand on her shoulder. "Good lady, please accept my apologies. My brother's foolishness makes me forget my manners sometimes." He settled back into the seat again, pressing his lips together in thought, measuring her with those hooded grey eyes. Finally he nodded, almost to himself. "I do know a man. And my influence would not be lost on him. We will go together my dear, and get you seen, although I cannot promise anything other than this. If he agrees to take your case then I have no influence over the outcome. Still, he is a talented man. You could see no better in the city."

Kit's eyes flooded with gratitude. Before she could utter a word of thanks he had turned back to his younger brother. "Are you coming Sherlock?"

"No. I am bound for the theatre. That is where the data is, probably being trampled and obliterated as we speak."

"You shan't go like that?"

"No, I shall stop by Montague Street first to change and gather my things. I can be of no further use to Miss Rushford at the moment. I will meet you at your home later, brother."

Kit tried to hide the anxiety on her face. Foolishly, she had started to imagine that he might stay with her throughout the coming ordeal.

"Goodbye Mr. Holmes." She tried to keep he voice even and unaffected. "And thank you."

He bowed to her, not meeting her eye, then stepped back and closed the hansom door firmly between them.

Mycroft merely chuckled and shook his head. He reached out and patted her shoulder in his disarming way. "Don't worry, my dear. Sherlock believes that every problem in life is one to be considered, and then cast off as soon as solved. He hasn't yet learned that you never solve people. You and I will visit this specialist immediately, and then my brother and I will have a discussion as to exactly what his role in this whole matter will truly be. Come. For now we go to Brook Street."

He tapped his cane on the roof of the cab and the horses jolted them into movement once again.


	3. The Royal Olympic

Holmes flung open the door to his flat in Montague Street and almost tumbled inside. What imbecile had left a stack of newspapers in the entrance way? What a thoughtless, ridiculous place to leave yesterday's edition of The Times! He slammed the door shut behind him, kicking the pile into a blizzard of newsprint. He crossed towards his bedroom, a drafty closet-sized alcove hidden from the main room behind a heavy curtain. He pulled off his waistcoat and dropped it to the floor on his way to the washstand in the corner by his bed. Of all the silly, time-wasting, nonsense he had been forced to take part in throughout his life, this by far was the worst! His collar and cuffs soon joined his waistcoat on the worn carpet, followed by his soiled white dress shirt, which had not been laundered in over a week.

He sloshed cold water into the basin and doused his face and hands. He rubbed soap over both and scrubbed away as if he might be trying to remove a layer of skin. The soap stung his eyes and foamed into his ears. What had that blasted woman dragged him into? He had heard Mycroft's parting words to her before the cab had pulled away, and if his dear brother thought that he, a man with important places to go and things to do was going to be bullied into the position of nursemaid for a stricken _woman_ , then Mycroft had another thought coming. Had he, Sherlock Holmes, not liberated her from that horrible place where she would have waited for ages without receiving proper treatment? Had he not used his familial influence to procure her the best treatment possible? Had he not seen her, safe and sound, go off in the right direction accompanied by a gentleman capable of doing much more for her financially than he himself could? Yes. Yes to one, and yes to all. As far as he was concerned, his obligation ended there.

He grabbed a rough towel off the back of a chair next to the basin and scoured himself pink and dry. Obviously he would take her case. Obviously he would _solve_ her case, and then get back to any one of the numerous more important things he was doing right now.

None of which he seemed to be able to bring to mind just then.

He took a quick glance at himself in the cracked hand-mirror he kept on his window pane. Oh, hell, he needed a shave. He had not thought of it this morning as he foolishly went running out the door, and now the shadow of growth on his chin was unmistakable. He grabbed his leather strop with some force and began sharpening his straight razor.

No doubt this is what Miss Rushford had been looking at in the cab when he noticed her scrutinizing him so carefully. At the time he had found it most disconcerting, not only because he did not like being surveyed like a specimen in a jar, but because against his will, he had found himself curious about her conclusions. Worse, he had found that he disliked the idea that she might form a negative opinion of him. Of all the weak-willed, dirt-common concerns! Why on earth should he care what she thought? How preposterous!

He lathered his face and dragged the razor deftly down his cheeks, across his jaw line, and up over his throat. Once finished, he threw the razor down into the still-full basin of water and began the search for fresh collar and cuffs.

He found one collar that didn't look too badly worn, but after a ten minute search, during which time all his drawers were pulled out, riffled through, contents strewn about over the floor, he could not locate the cuffs. "I need a blasted maid!" he bellowed, finally dropping to his knees to search under his bed. There was a single cuff there. Another he found on the mantel piece, hooked over the top of a small water colour of the Sussex Downs. He hated that picture. Mycroft had gifted it to him some years ago, a hint probably to take up his position back on the family farms. Hadn't he bought a whole box of cuffs just the other week? He remembered being told that a gentleman should have no less than a year's supply at any given time. Pushing the thought away he hunted for, and found, his last remaining clean dress shirt, slung over the footboard of his single bed.

He struggled with it, of course, trying to be mindful not to tear the arm-hole, but really far too enraged to actually care. What on earth had that woman been playing at? Clearly she was in a substantial amount of pain. He had been acutely aware of her suffering. To what purpose the bravado, then? Damn independence of spirit is what it was! Why had she not just cried and sniveled? It would have been embarrassing, yes, but expected at least. And far more womanish. Instead he was faced with this unaccustomed show of practicality, intellect, courage even. What was he to do with that? How was he to pat that behavior patronizingly upon the head and send her on her way? What brazen action or sentence was to come out of her next?

He nearly tore his cuff in two. The collar he buttoned strangulation tight, the shirt he crammed into his pants roughly. He pomaded his hair and slicked it back mercilessly. Surely she must have noticed how uncomfortable he was. How unfair it was to keep distracting him with those rare blue eyes? And every time he was about to loose some truly caustic observation, she managed to silence him with a look. With a look!

And her music.

That did make him pause.

The thought of never hearing her play again was an agony. Perhaps she was not the most technically gifted of players, but he had never heard notes of such purity. The memory of it clung to him. He found nothing as nerve-wracking as unchecked passion.

He yanked his frock coat and overcoat on and grabbed his violin off the desk. Miss Tilby's telegram he stuffed into his waistcoat pocket on his way out. He must solve this case as fast as possible and get this alarming person out of his life immediately. He slammed the door behind him. The walls reverberated so hard that the small water colour on the mantelpiece tipped over and banged to the floor.

* * *

Drury Lane was full of horses. Their breath steamed out behind them in the cool evening as they drew tradesmen's carts and cabs and wagons loaded down with piles of cabbages, turnips, or boxes of fragile porcelain packed in straw. The lamp-lighters were out, moving purposefully down the cobbled streets as the dusk closed in.

Holmes skirted around a man shoveling manure into a hand cart and pulled his overcoat tighter around his neck, veering across the sidewalk to avoid an orange seller. The Royal Olympic was a squat building, newly renovated, with a sweeping stone staircase leading to a landing with three sets of double doors, a gaslight burning in an etched glass globe above each doorway. The stage entrance was around the back of the building facing Newcastle Street, down a narrow brick alley hemmed in on one side by the theatre itself, and on the other by a soggy wooden fence. It smelled of rotting lettuce and coal smoke from the barges on the Thames.

There was a group of men in ragged jackets and slouch hats gathered around the doorway, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and spitting against the brick wall. Holmes approached them with his most determined look of disinterest.

The men looked up as he neared, and one of them with dark hair and a full tangled beard lifted a chin to indicated Holmes. "What are you after?"

"I'm looking for Lucy Tilby. She told me to come around by this door and find her."

"Oh, yeah. What for?"

Stagehands. He could tell from their callused fingers and the dust smudges across all their shoulders from working up in the rafters.

"She sent me a telegram this morning. Apparently one of the orchestra members got themselves knocked around a bit, and there may be a spot open for a violinist."

The feeling in the group turned cold. The man who had been addressing Holmes took a step forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "Knocked around she was. And you'll speak better of her or not at all. There was none kinder than Miss Rushford. If I ever get my hands on the man who laid her out, I won't answer for my actions, that's for sure."

"She was badly hurt then?"

"Looked like Death warmed over and left here for us to find."

"She was here?" Holmes asked.

"Found her right on this very doorstep, didn't I? Face all cut up and bloody, hands stomped to jelly. Violin was in pieces at the base of that wall, there. Looked like someone gave it a mighty heave."

"The violin was here with her?"

"I just said so. Found it right there under her. Poor lass. She's ruined now for sure."

Holmes startled. "How do you mean?"

"She's got no one. No job to her name, no way to keep herself out of trouble now. Girl needs to eat. She'll find something to do, you watch. I've seen many a good-looking girl go that way, God love 'em. A girl sells what she's got to sell."

Holmes was caught off guard by this. The direness of Miss Rushford's situation had not hit him in such terms before. Surely she would never stoop to that? And yet, the man was right. She was hardly marriageable in her current state, and unless she recovered the movement in her hands, then what respectable profession would have her? One if the other men in the group, shorter than the first, with scrubby red hair curling down over his collar and springing from his shirt front, pushed his face forward, sallow skin the colour of mucky sea-foam. "Here now, what's with all the questions?"

"Didn't mean to pry." Holmes gave them a disarming smile and hefted his violin case. "All I know is that my cousin told me to show up here tonight to meet the conductor and see if I could take over the empty spot until Kit comes back."

Something about using Miss Rushford's Christian name caused the group to relax. The dark-hair one tossed his cigarette stub to the ground and motioned Holmes to follow him.

"Better come on, then. Lucy'll be in the greenroom."

Holmes followed him out of the cold, passing from the dim alley to the even dimmer, much stuffier hallway. Generations of actors had scrawled their names and show titles into the walls, giving it a frenetic, claustrophobic feel. They turned a corner, and now the passage was lined on either side by dressing rooms. Through the few doors that were left open Holmes could see men and women in various states of flamboyant military dress. From behind closed doors he could hear sounds of chatting, gargling, and vocal warm-ups.

They turned again, and they were in the stage left wing. An old man with rheumatic hands and knees was running a broom across the deep stage. Holmes could see the plush red seating, raked upwards from the stage to the back of the large cream-coloured room. They were passing behind a line of tall black curtains that hid the business of the back stage from the audience sightlines.

Along the wall to his right was the fly gallery. Length upon length of rope strung up from the stage floor to the moving bars hung from the theatre ceiling. All run through different pulley systems, each line could be weighted and controlled from here on the ground, lowering and raising the bars hung with canvas backdrops and, in this case, the flat wooden cut-out of a pirate ship. Holmes smiled despite himself. He did love the theatre.

They came off the stage through a doorway that led them down several flights of steps, and then back-tracked under the stage itself. Holmes realized that they were walking parallel to the orchestra pit, which was sunk below the level of the front row audience. The dark-haired man veered suddenly left, into an alcove, and threw open a heavy steel door. Cigarette smoke and the smell of perfume wafted out as Holmes followed the other man inside then stopped suddenly to get his bearings.

He was confronted with a large group of people, seated in armchairs and on couches, feet up, reading newspapers or drinking strong coffee. The buzz of conversation stopped the moment he stepped through the door. Questioning eyes came to rest on him.

"Lucy, your cousin is here looking for you." The stagehand announced, and then left Holmes to fend for himself in a room full of strangers.

A slight blonde woman with doughy features and an upturned nose looked up from a handbill she was reading. Her brow furrowed when she saw Holmes. She opened her mouth but Holmes fished the telegram out of his pocket and held it up first. "I got your telegram thins morning, Lucy." Her mouth snapped shut. "About the opening in the violin section," he continued, undaunted by the uncomfortable ripple that went through the company.

"Lucy," an elder man in coat tails flashed a thunderous scowl at her. "Did you tell this young man that he could have Kit's job? It's not your place to make such promises, girl."

"No, Mr. Elmer," She stammered back, shooting a glare that was full of poisonous arrows at Holmes. "I just thought…"

"Lucy said it might help if I came down to see if I could hold the spot for Miss Rushford until she was able to come back," Holmes put in.

Elmer shook out his paper and folded it neatly on his lap. "And what is it exactly that you do, young man?"

"I give private violin lessons. My name is Bill Holmes."

"I've never heard of you. I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, but I am not in need of another violinist. I have already filled the position with a musician of my acquaintance. I'm afraid that you have wasted your time."

Holmes let his shoulders droop. "Of course. I understand that your mistress would make it difficult for you if the position did not go to her."

"What?" Elmer seemed suddenly bereft of the mental acuity needed to be offended. "How did you..."

"The _slightly_ over middle-aged widow with the three Persian cats?"

"Why would you..."

"Your shirt sir. Your shirt tells me all."

Holmes pushed the telegram back into his pocket without waiting for a reply and waved for Lucy to follow him. "Show me the way back out, will you Luce?" she looked positively horrified, but at a stern crooked finger from him she surrendered her seat and followed him out into the hall.

As soon as the door was firmly shut behind them he turned to her. "Miss Tilby. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Holmes?"

"Sherlock Holmes. It _was_ you who sent me the telegram this morning, wasn't it?"

"Well, yes, but I didn't mean for you to come here and interfere with my job."

"There was no return address on your note. How was I to find you if not by coming here?"

"But I don't have anything to tell you."

"That's not true. You can start by showing me the orchestra pit."

She huffed out a loud breath and pointed across the hall. "There."

"Excellent." He took her by the elbow and escorted her through the low doorway into the pit.

Once inside the space opened up into a small roofless arena, from which he could see the massive guilt ceilings of the main auditorium of the theatre. There was an oppressive silence to the big room, an air of expectation as the audience gathered outside in the lobby, waiting to flood in.

"Which seat is Miss Rushford's?"

"The half-hour bell is going to go any minute. The musicians will be coming in."

"Then I suggest you hurry and point out Miss Rushford's seat to me." Lucy bit her thumbnail nervously and then pointed to one of a group of five chairs in the corner farthest away from the door. "It's the one beside mine. There are three other violinists."

Holmes made his way over, sidestepping music stands and glasses of water tucked under or around the legs of some of the chairs.

"This one?" He laid his hand on it. Lucy nodded.

He got down on his hands and knees and began to scrutinize the seat, then under it. The floor was sticky, and covered in flakes of rosin. "Tell me all that you remember from yesterday," He threw over his shoulder at her.

"I don't remember anything."

"Miss Tilby, please. I cannot help your friend if you insist on lying to me. How did you know she was coming to see me yesterday?"

Lucy glanced around behind her and then sagged visibly. "You're right; she did speak to me about coming to see you. For the last week, she was saying that she thought there was a man following her when she left the theatre."

"Did she get a look at him?"

"I don't think so. She said he wore a hat low over his eyes, and an overcoat I think. She didn't tell me any details. He kept about a block back from her I think. Then yesterday, my brother Davey showed up after the matinee. He comes sometimes to take me to dinner between shows. I invited Kit to come with us, but she said that she was going to see you to ask for your help. Next thing I knew, she was back."

"How did she seem?"

"Upset. I asked her what you had said to the whole affair, but she didn't want to tell. Anyway. The show ended and she was on her way home. I told her we'd go out tonight, after the show, like, figure out what was to be done about it all. When I got into work they told me that she had been found this morning on the doorstep and that she was…that she was…" Here Lucy stopped, her face reddening and tears dripping down her cheeks. She wiped her nose on the cuff of her blouse. "Have you seen her, Mr. Holmes?"

He lifted his face from the floor for a moment to look at her, not getting up from his knees. "I have."

"And was she…I mean…had she been meddled with?"

His frown deepened as he took her meaning. "No. She had not."

He crawled around to the other side of the chair, near pressing his nose to the floor as he checked it inch by inch. "Tell me about Miss Rushford. Was she well liked here?"

"Kit? None better. She had a way about her."

"Who but the orchestra members are allowed in here?"

"The conductor. The cleaners, once a week. No one else really, although it's not often locked. Who would want to be in here besides the players?"

The sweep of Holmes' eye stopped on a small white object pushed against the wall behind Miss Rushford's chair. "Is smoking allowed?"

"No. Not in the pit itself. We're too close to the gas footlights. We would hardly have time, anyway."

Holmes picked up the cigarette butt gingerly and rotated it in this thumb and forefinger. "One day," he mused to himself, "I'm going to write a monogram on tobacco and tobacco ash." He sniffed the end of the stub. "Turkish."

"So?"

"It did not come in on someone's shoe. It is still uncrushed. And only half-smoked. The end has been pinched off with the thumb. I believe someone dropped it from a pocket."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes, then someone dropped it from a pocket. Please, we should go."

A chime rang out in the corridor. A moment later the call boy passed the open door of the pit, ringing a hand bell as he went. "Half-hour," he called.

"You see Mr. Holmes? We _must_ go."

"Of course." He dropped the cigarette butt into his waistcoat pocket and climbed to his feet and dusted off his knees. They left the pit together. Lucy pointed back the way he had come. "Just follow this passage to the end, up the stairs, and across the stage."

He gave her a slight nod of thanks and started to leave.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He stopped and turned back to her.

"I'm sorry to be so callous. It's just that everything is always in such a rush here. It's so easy to find yourself without a job. As a woman, this is one of the few career doors open that doesn't force me into the work of a domestic." She stopped and tucked a few strands of blonde hair behind her ear. Farther down the hall, they could hear doors opening, and the scurry of feet grew louder.

"You _have_ seen Kit?"

"I have just come from her."

"And do you think she'll be all right?"

"Yes." He realized it was a lie, and forced himself to amend his statement. "I mean, I hope that she will be."

"Thank you."

He gave her a quick bow and walked away.

He was crossing the stage again, cursing under his breath, when a voice startled him from behind. "Oy!"

Holmes stopped and turned. A robust crimson-faced man was puffing after him, flapping a hand to get his attention. Holmes recognized him from the greenroom, though he had sat in the corned the whole time and said nothing. "Listen," he panted, "were you serious about needing a job?" The little man slowed, brushing loose grey hair out of his eyes.

"I was."

"And is fiddling all you can do, or do you mind throwing your back into something else for a while?"

"Any job is welcome"

The man nodded, re-adjusting his tie and smoothing it into his rough wool vest. "Well, I'm props assistant here, but I've been called over to The Strand Theatre for two weeks to help with their production of _Phaedra_. How would you like to fill in for me until I get back?"

"Props assistant? What would I have to do?"

"What it sounds like. Make sure all the props start the show in their right places, that as the show goes on the actors get what they need and everything makes it to its pre-set. Watch that the actors don't move anything down to their dressing rooms, or it'll be lost forever. Mind that nothing gets broken, if it does, get it fixed, quick. It's not the worst job you could get."

Holmes considered. "Yes. I'll take it."

"Good." The man clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Come back tomorrow at noon. There's a guest company rehearsing another play on stage, but I'll take you through all my lists and show you what's what."

"Thank you." Holmes stretched out his hand, and the other grasped it warmly.

"Jeffy Carlyle. Jefford, really, but we won't talk about that."

"Bill Holmes."

"All right. We'll see you then." Jeffy turned to go, but then stopped and turned back. "Oh," he pointed his finger at Holmes' formal wear. "And you may want to dress down a little."

Holmes smiled. "Of course."

Jeffy disappeared down the stairs. Holmes watched him go. His brow darkened suddenly. He crossed to one of the stagehands working at the fly gallery and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around and grunted. "What?"

"Which play are we doing?" Holmes asked.

The man's eyes widened, and then he gave him a lopsided grin. "It's the _HMS Pinafore_."

Holmes groaned. The man chuckled in earnest. "Every night, my man. No time off for good behavior."

Holmes left through the stage door. The alleyway was deserted now, dark, since the streetlights did not penetrate all the way back here. He took out his case of matches and lit one, shielding the flame with his hand. He crossed to survey the brick wall of the building where Miss Rushford had been found.

The ground was damp and covered in footprints. Theatre staff, ambulance men, the regulation footwear of the police. He shook his head in annoyance. There was no way to tell if any of them belonged to Kit's attacker. Miss Rushford, he corrected himself. Miss Rushford's attacker. There were shards of violin wood ground into the bricks, but the instrument itself had been removed. He made a note to himself to ask around tomorrow to see if anyone knew who had picked it up. But why go through the effort, he wondered. If Miss Rushford was attacked on John Street, why go to the trouble of carrying her body and the broken violin all the way back here to leave her at the theatre? Unless it was a message to someone? It made sense that it was. They must have had a cart or wagon. He flared his nostrils, breathing in deeply. He could detect no lingering scent, of citrus or otherwise.

The ground was littered with garbage, straw and loose gravel. He couldn't even see the imprint of where her body had been. Something did catch his eye, down by his shoe. A cigarette stub. He leaned down and picked it up, wafting it under his nostrils. Turkish. He dropped it into his other pocket. The lit match singed his fingers, and he dropped it with a hiss.

He walked back to the mouth of the alley and then turned towards John Street. Perhaps he would have better luck there.

* * *

 **Feel free to leave me a comment! I dig the input.**


	4. Queensberry Rules

Holmes did not make it back to his rooms until well after eleven that evening. A few minutes after leaving the theatre the rain arrived with gusto. Great sheets drove down onto the cobblestone streets, flooding away any traces of evidence that may have survived from the previous night. Holmes shivered and drew his coat collar closer around his neck. The trudge to John Street was uninteresting, the streets got narrower, darker, thicker with human stench and garbage. The night denizens were out now, teeth chattering in the downpour, huddled around open fire grates and the semi-warm entrances of dim bar rooms.

Holmes spent an hour slogging up and down John Street. It was poorly lit and mostly unpopulated. One or two men in torn clothing stumbled through, ignoring the numb women in heavy makeup leaned against a free section of wall or a slightly dryer door jam. One woman cast an appreciating eye over Holmes, but he ignored her, scanning the ground instead, the sooty walls, upper windows that might have housed a witness of the events of last night. Everything looked closed up and dreary. He could find no hidden entrance through to the alleyway he knew was running behind the row of buildings on the North side of the street.

Finally accepting defeat, he hailed a cab on the corner of Vine Street and headed back to his flat. The rain was slowing by the time he got there, mist creeping into damp gutters and up brick walls.

There was no spring in his step as he mounted the hall stairs, shedding his overcoat and frock coat before he was even in the door. He unlocked and kicked it open, tossed his coats onto the settee, and slammed the door behind him.

Where was she now? Had Mycroft stayed with her? He, Sherlock, should have stayed. He should have climbed back into the cab with her and kept her shorn up with his shoulder the whole way to…wherever it was Mycroft was taking her. He thought of the women he had seen tonight, faces twisted into obscene parodies of themselves. _This is a welcoming expression. This one an expression to entice. This one to make you feel wanted._ Holmes shook himself to get rid of the images. It was out of his hands now. She was gone, and it was up to Mycroft to keep her safe.

He fell into bed, barley taking the time to change into his night shirt, closed his eyes tight and kept them that way, even as her image crept back to him - the look of her face when he had closed the door between them, a picture of strength and reproof.

* * *

Something woke him. Some sound in the other room, hidden on the other side of the bedroom curtain. Holmes willed himself to lie still, straining his ears. It came again, a soft movement by the fire place. He drew in a deep breath, testing the air, and a groan escaped him.

"It is very early Mycroft."

"Yes, Sherlock. Thank you. I believe I am still able to read my own watch."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I am here to tell you that there is a cab waiting for us downstairs."

Sherlock opened his eyes and threw the bed clothes off, taking a cigarette from the case he kept on his side table and lighting it before swinging his feet to the floor.

He shuffled out of the alcove into the main room to find Mycroft at the fire, looking over his assorted knickknacks. The elder Holmes pointed to a small jewel-encrusted dagger that had pride of place in the center of the mantel.

"Is this a Phurba?"

"Yes."

Mycroft turned to him, mouth open to ask the obvious question concerning just _why_ Sherlock might have a Tibetan ceremonial dagger in his living room, when he stopped, drawing himself up at the sight of him. "Dear God, Sherlock. Don't you have a dressing gown?"

"No."

Mycroft seemed to rock back at this, as if it were a physical blow.

"But I did see the most wonderful one at Gamages the other day," Sherlock continued, pretending not to notice. "Mouse coloured."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, lowering himself down onto the settee. "Will you be so good as to get dressed, please? We are running later than I would like."

"And where are we going?"

"Come, Sherlock, you know how I do love surprises."

"Almost as much as I do." Sherlock grimaced, knowing full well that no amount of complaining would get an answer to his question. Mycroft was maddeningly obstinate at times.

He crushed out his cigarette in the pot of his aspidistra and huffed back into his room to get on his working togs.

* * *

A quarter of a hour later they were seated comfortably side by side in a hansom, watching the neat pavement and manicured hedges of High Holborn give way to narrower streets, Fleet Lane, Cannon Street, the drab brickwork, and dingy bed-sits stacked one on top of the other. Sherlock found his fingers tapping on his thigh. Finally he laced his fingers in his lap and asked, "How is Miss Rushford?"

"Hmm." Mycroft did not look in from the window.

"Have you seen her?"

"Hmmmm."

"Meaning?"

"She is a brave woman, Sherlock. Quite remarkable." He shifted his attention inside the cab, and Sherlock was worried by the serious look on his brother's face. "Her hand has been re-set," Mycroft finally conceded. "She spent the night in a private hospital I was able to secure her a spot in. She was too sedated to be taken home."

"And the doctor is…positive?"

"As can be expected. It is now only for her to rest and allow herself the best chances of healing. Which you are going to help her with."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock felt a drop in the pit of his stomach as an inkling of his brother's intentions struck him.

"Well, obviously, Sherlock. Miss Rushford is at a disadvantage. Someone must attend her and ease her way."

"Someone like a nurse, you mean?"

"Ah, and will you be paying for this private nurse, Sherlock?"

"You know I can't."

"So I am to pay then, am I? Pay for your foolishness once again? No. I simply won't have it. Not while you're here and able-bodied."

"Mycroft, I am in the middle of trying to track down her attacker."

"Something you wouldn't have to do if you had listened to her in the first place."

Sherlock's jaw muscle twitched. Mycroft acknowledged the tick with a smile. "Yes, Sherlock, Miss Rushford has told me all about your first meeting. It strikes me as quite negligent of you."

"Mycroft, she cannot stay with me. Think about it. I am a bachelor. It would be ruinous to her reputation if she were to spend any significant time around me. Assuming I had somewhere for her to stay. Which I don't, as you have seen for yourself."

"I have."

"And I certainly cannot attend her at her place of residence. It would be even worse if neighbours see a man coming and going. Impossible. Her reputation would never survive it."

"Thank you Sherlock, I am aware of the concept of propriety. I'm not suggesting either of you do anything so rash."

"So what are you suggesting?" They were pulling to a stop. Sherlock looked around, struggling to get his bearings. "Where are we?"

"Bread Street, near Upper Thames."

They were parked at a storefront. The length of the street was mainly bakeries and pie shops, though the smell of Old Fish Street drifted to them from across Five Foot Lane, only a few hundred feet away. This storefront, however, belonged to a tailor. _Meerhelm & Sons Fine Tailors and Haberdashery_. Sherlock frowned. "I do not require a tailor, brother."

"There is a certain room, rented out by my department when we are in need of hiding someone away for a short length of time. It is a rather squalid place, but then, that suits our purposes rather well. It happens to be located in the back of this building on the third floor."

Sherlock grudgingly followed Mycroft out of the cab and around the building. A rickety wooden set of landings and ladders ran up the back wall, draped with laundry. The Holmes brothers trudged to the top, Mycroft having a significantly harder go of it than Sherlock. By the time they reached the correct door, the elder man was huffing and blowing loudly, much to Sherlock's pleasure.

"I take it the Diogenies club is not riddled with stairs?"

"I stay on the first floor, as any gentleman would." Mycroft straightened his four-in-hand tie and opened the door without knocking.

Sherlock followed him in, ducking to avoid the low jam. The inside was dingy, but not horrendous. There was a small sitting area to the left of the door that had a few cupboards for dishes and pots, plus a cast iron parlor stove that gave off a cheery heat. A short hallway lay straight in front of them with a door on either side, terminating in a linen closet at the end. Sherlock stepped into the sitting area, tossed his hat and coat onto one of the two upholstered armchairs and crossed over to the stove, which only came up to his mid-thigh, holding his cold hands out to warm them.

"You see Sherlock? Perfect for a young couple just starting out. You and Miss Rushford will fit the bill quite nicely. Especially with your flair for costumes."

Sherlock snapped around to face his brother, his chest puffed out with indignation.

"They are disguises, Mycroft."

"Just as you say."

"Why would it be necessary to do such a thing anyway? Why can't Miss Rushford convalesce in her own home? Reputation aside, I'm sure we could find someone to look in on her. She has a friend at the theatre that could…" He trailed off as he considered the absurdity of asking Lucy Tilby to do anything that required discretion.

"You were the one who pointed out her need for safety, Sherlock. And oddly enough, I agree with you. Until we know if this is a random attack or whether she was specifically chosen, we can't be sure the bastard might not try again. And from what I hear, if she was being followed the week prior then, well…it doesn't sound good does it?"

Sherlock blinked at his brother. Bastard? Mycroft never swore. Miss Rushford must have done something particular to ingratiate herself to the elder Holmes. What had he called her? A most remarkable woman? Sherlock felt his hands tighten ever so slightly into fists at his sides.

"This is preposterous," he spat. "Even if she was in need of aid, Miss Rushford would never allow herself to stay in such a place as this for any length of time. No woman would if she were not forced by class and society. They have no interest in adventure and stoicism. Deprived of their hair-tongs they experience lack of direction, malaise, faintheartedness and a tendency to panic and cling. She'll never agree. "

Mycroft stared at him for a moment from under his eyebrows. "Let's ask her, shall we?"

"What?!"

"Miss Rushford?" Mycroft called. A door opened and shut and footsteps sounded in the hall. A moment later Kit appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. She looked pale, but composed. Both hands were freshly bandaged, her right in a sling across her chest. Perspiration broke out on Sherlock's forehead as she ran cold eyes over him.

"Miss Rushford," He stammered. "I was unaware that you were here."

"Yes Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid I realized moments ago that I accidently left my powder case at home and fell into a dead faint for a few moments, but I find I have regained my composure now, and am ready for the continued adventure that being in your presence presents me." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Her chin tipped up defiantly. A challenge then, he realized. Mycroft hid a smile behind his hand.

"You see Sherlock? It would seem that Miss Rushford is more than up to the challenge of dealing with you."

Sherlock gave up his last vestige of politeness. "I cannot be a hand-maiden to Miss Rushford! I cannot dress and feed her. It's ridiculous"

"I have no need to be fed or dressed Mr. Holmes," she shot back.

"However," Mycroft put in quickly, "there are many other things you could do to ease Miss Rushford's convalescence."

"You're joking."

"I'm not. I'm very serious. What if Miss Rushford should like to be read to?" She and Mycroft exchanged an innocent look. "I do enjoy reading a great deal," she agreed.

"Of course you do, my dear. But how wearing for you to have to hold a book open for any length of time. How painful. Do you enjoy walking?"

"Very much."

"Just think of the myriad of things that one comes across in a walk that would be much easier with a pair of working hands."

Sherlock felt sick. He laid a single finger across his lips, the tip alongside his nose, and glared at them both keenly. "I see. You two have colluded."

"No, Sherlock, we have talked. We have exchanged pleasantries and ideas. You should try it some time. And now, I am going home. I assume I can trust you two to work out the next stage of this affair for yourselves." Mycroft crossed to the door and stopped after opening it. "Goodbye, brother. And good luck." He removed his hat and bowed to Kit. "Miss Rushford, a pleasure. Please let me know if there is any other way I can be of service."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft trundled through the door and pulled it firmly shut behind him, leaving Sherlock and Kit to stare at each other awkwardly.

Which they did.

Finally Kit relented and pointed Holmes to a chair. "Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, if this is how were going to spend the next few days then we might as well do it sitting down." She sank into an armchair by the stove. Holmes copied her movement in the seat across from her. He took his cigarette case from an inside pocket and held one up.

"May I?"

"Please. At least we can count it as _doing_ something."

Holmes lit the cigarette and exhaled a long slow cloud of smoke, watching her intently. She kept her eyes on the fire. "This is farcical," he informed her. Her face twitched with a look of disappointment, but it passed so quickly he couldn't be sure that he had seen it. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Are you…comfortable?"

She smiled at him wanly. "Not really, but I do feel better than I did yesterday. It would have been easier…"

He leaned forward. Had they been rough with her? Had she been hungry? Cold? Had they seen to her needs properly? If he discovered that anyone had been anything other than a gentleman to her… "Yes?" He prompted.

"Nothing."

"Tell me," he insisted.

"It would have been easier…"

"If Mycroft had taken you somewhere else?" He felt his stomach tighten.

"If you had been there."

"Oh." He didn't understand. And then suddenly he did. "Oh." Colour flooded his face, and he dragged so hard on his cigarette that he nearly choked. He opened the stove door and tossed the butt into the fire.

"Did you have any luck at the theatre yesterday?" she pressed ahead, aware that she had made him uncomfortable.

"Some slight amount. I have become a props assistant."

"Did something happen to Mr. Carlyle?"

"He has an engagement at The Strand for a few weeks."

"Ah. His mistress wants him to take her to Brighton again."

"What?"

"Mr. Holmes, Jeffy Carlyle is a very dependable man. He has been for all twenty years of his incredibly boring marriage. However, once every few years he needs a break. He takes it with Mrs. Laura Childers of Woking. They go to Brighton for a week. He tells his wife he's visiting a cousin, and work that he's over at The Strand. Everyone knows, but sees no reason to cause him any distress. He's very diligent at his job."

Holmes cleared this throat, lighting another cigarette. Kit bit her lip, realizing that somehow she had made it worse. Was it any reference to normal human emotion that put him on edge? How did he maneuver through the simplest of conversations if that was the case? She took a deep breath and tried again. "When are you going back to the theatre?"

"This afternoon. I have to learn the particulars of my new position. "

She nodded. "I will come with you."

"Absolutely not."

"But, why? I can _not_ use my hands just as comfortably outside as cooped up in here."

"Miss Rushford, I am working. I have inquiries."

"That I could help you with. I won't get in your way, I promise."

Holmes barked out a dry laugh. "Miss Rushford, there is no way a woman can be of any help to me. I would be forced to divert my energies into looking out for your welfare, and not able to focus on the task at hand. Not possible."

"I can take care of myself Mr. Holmes."

"Evidence indicates otherwise." He replied dryly.

She recoiled as if slapped. Holmes cursed himself mentally for that. What was it about her that constantly made him want to lash out, to push her as far away as possible? The hurt expression on her face cost him dearly.

"Are you saying," she kept her voice very calm, "that you are unable to be in the same room with me without losing your ability to focus?"

Her eyes challenged him. He could feel a flush creep up his cheeks. The smoke from his cigarette hung in the air between them.

"That is not what I mean, Miss Rushford."

"Then pray, Mr. Holmes, please tell me what you did mean."

His fingers danced on his thigh. "It is not that easy…"

"May I suggest you make us a cup of tea, relax in your chair, and _try_."

His brows furrowed over light grey eyes, getting steadily darker. "I do not make tea."

"And I do not 'wait here'."

Holmes stood, and she matched his movement, stepping closer to him before he had a chance to retreat. Her eyes fell almost at the level of his mouth, causing him to tilt his head down to see her. Without thinking his eyes darted down to her lips. Her tongue appeared swiftly, moistening her bottom one. She smelled of soap. This surprised him. Most women he came in contact with wore too much perfume. The scent overpowered him. But her scent was more delicate. Barely there. It smelled floral, teasing him.

"You will have to learn, then." He tried to sound calm. Final.

"I think it would be easier for you to learn to make tea instead."

That muscle in his jaw twitched again. Rather than pulling away, she leaned closer, lifting her chin. That aquiline nose of his might press her forehead if they were any closer. A low growl started in Holmes throat, and before she knew it he had twisted way from her on his heel, grabbed his coat and hat off the chair and yanked open the door.

"Follow me to the theatre, and I swear, I will give you cause to regret it."

He slammed the door after him. The walls shook with the force of it. Kit sank into the couch, careful not to brace herself with her hands. They were throbbing now, and her throat felt tight and dry. Tears stung behind her eyelids, but she did not permit herself to cry. Instead she pressed her lips together until they were bloodless and did her best to hate Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

A right cross landed squarely on the corner of Holmes' mouth, splitting his lip. He took a few steps back, raising his gloves to guard his face while he tongued at the line of his bottom teeth, pressing hard to see if any were loose. They all seemed to be in their proper places. He weaved left to avoid a sloppy jab and drove his curled fist with all his might into the left side of his opponent, just under his ribs. The bigger man grunted and collapse over himself, hooking a right wide around to connect with the thinner man's ear. Holmes deflected it easily and drove a hard left directly into the man's right cheek, sending him stumbling back tripping on his feet to land with an almost comic sitting motion on the turf ground of the ring.

The hum of the boxing gym started to die as more and more of the men abandoned their bags and partners to watch the fight. The place stank of sweat and oiled leather.

Holmes panted, tasting blood. He watched his opponent struggle up, weave forward to toe the scratch again. _Fine_ , Holmes thought, _take all the time you need_. He had considered going home after his meeting with Miss Rushford, but knew it would be a useless endeavor. In the mood he was in he was far more likely to tear the place to shreds, and it wasn't even ten in the morning yet. He couldn't distract himself at the theatre, so he had turned in the direction of his boxing club instead.

The man in front of him raised his gloves again, tensing his large chest. His intentions clear: to pummel the smaller man into a stain on the floor. Holmes smiled. His fist lashed out mercilessly into the man's face and stomach, driving him back against the ropes, landing a series of right and left cuts that sent the bigger man's head snapping back and forth, blood and saliva arching from his mouth onto the ground.

Holmes could hear himself almost sobbing for breath. His legs shook, his forearms trembled from strain. Sweat dripped down his chest from his shoulders, across the expanse of his naked ribs. His hair fell forward, wet and unruly across his forehead. He couldn't still his heart rate.

What did she want? How could one person send him into such turmoil over a cup of tea? Sherlock Holmes, fetching tea! Reading to her!

His opponent righted himself, dragging his gloves up to guard his face. Holmes slammed him square in the nose, stepping off as the man collapsed into the turf, dragging himself along the roped to get more distance. Holmes walked back to the center of the ring, giving him space. _A gentleman waits._

The man refused to stay down, though. Soon he was staggering to his knees, then his feet. He spat a spider web of blood in Holmes' direction, bringing his gloves into position again.

 _This is him_ , Holmes thought grimly. _This is the man who attacked her. This is what I will do to the man who caused Katherine so much pain._ A man who had taken something from her that Holmes felt powerless to give back. Her feeling of safety. He landed a solid left into the bigger man's chin, following it immediately with a hard uppercut to the sternum. The man's breath left him in a blast.

Sherlock's arm reached back, he felt something in his muscles twinge and lock. He was ready to breath smoke, to purge every last ounce of anger out of his taught body, to take this itchy dizzy feeling and tear – tear her dress, bury his hand in her hair, kiss her lips – his fist connected just below the eye, splashing blood and sweat back into his own face as the big man's head spun, taking his shoulders around with him. He stopped for a second with his back to Holmes, and a long breath whistled through the watching crowd. Slowly his knees buckled and he crashed to the ground, hand scrabbling out to find some way to drag himself towards the edge of the ring, away from the smaller man standing over him.

"Oy, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock looked over to see the club manager leaning his hip against one of the posts, curling his fingers through his waxed mustache. "Queensberry Rules, sir. I'm afraid you can't just punch him to death any more. He's obviously out."

Holmes dropped his gloved hands to his sides. He felt suddenly limp, sated. Several men scurried forward to help pull the bloody man out of the ring.

"What's eating you, man?" the manager called, wiping his neck with a handkerchief pulled from his pocket. "You're usually far more technical than this."

"Nothing. I just need…." He let his head hang forward, lungs burning, scanning the faces of the men watching him.

"Need what?"

"I need to make a cup of tea."

* * *

Kit had not moved from the couch. There was a book resting against her lap now, her strained hand laid across the pages to keep it open. Her heart-rate had returned to normal, but her throat still hurt from the strain of unshed tears. She fumbled with a page, turning it clumsily.

The main door opened and closed. She could smell pomade and aftershave. She closed her eyes briefly, angry at herself for the liquid pull she felt deep in her stomach. He was here. However angry she was with him, however rude he was, the feeling of safety that suffused her was intoxicating. She considered the warmth of his shoulder if he chose to sit next to her on the small couch, the fathomless depths of his grey eyes. They were storm at sea eyes, captivating and unsettling at the same time. She kept her eyes on her book as the blur of his form crossed the room. Water sloshed. Metal tinkled on metal. Then the shuffle of feet. His body, waist down, came into view in front of her. She sighed inwardly. Eventually she would have to look up, or this would become unseemly.

Before she had a chance he crouched down in front of her. He'd been back to his rooms, she realized. He was still wearing old work clothes, but he had washed, his face shaved smooth as glass. A sound escaped her as she noticed a raw split in in the corner of his lower lip, a red bruise already blooming around it. She put her free hand out and her fingers came to rest there gently.

Carefully, he removed her hand with his own. "It's nothing."

He was holding something out to her. It took her a moment to realize what it was. A violin case. His violin case.

"Miss Rushford, I cannot allow you to accompany me today. But I can offer you this. For you to practice with. Slowly. Until we are able to see about replacing your own."

He flipped open the case and she saw the Stradivarius laying there, the stained wood warm and honeyed with age. He gently took the book from her lap, and handed the violin over in such a way that she could grasp the neck carefully. She fitted her fingers over the strings. It hurt. She was unable to close her hand as much as was necessary, but even the act of trying made her feel better. She looked up at him with gratitude, just in time to catch a glimpse of something aggressive in his eyes before he looked away.

"I have put the kettle on. Do you take milk or lemon?"

* * *

 **Hey y'all. Hope you enjoyed. Shoot me a comment to let me know if I should keep this craziness going.**


	5. Hive of Vice

"…That it should come to this!

But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:

So excellent a king; that was, to this,

Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother

That be might not beteem the winds of heaven

Visit her face too roughly."

Holmes leaned against the back stage right wall behind the main curtain, hip cocked into the cold bricks, watching the rehearsal on deck. A cigarette pinched between two delicate fingers let off a fine trail of smoke that crept past his attentive face. "Rather maudlin." He pronounced, turning his back on the troupe of actors and smiling at the man behind him.

"What?" Jeffy Carlyle hovered over one of the props tables, arms full of dulled cavalry sabers, which he proceeded to dump onto a free spot near the end of the table and arrange distractedly.

"The delivery is too maudlin," Homes spoke louder, only to earn himself an angry glare from the Director, a thickset man with pendulous florid cheeks sitting cross-legged at the front of the stage.

"…..Heaven and earth!-" the actor on stage playing Hamlet soldiered on, trying his best in the middle of what was, in Holmes opinion anyway, a quite horrendous performance. "-Must I remember?"

"Please don't" Holmes grumbled.

The Director threw the sheaf of papers that was his script to the ground and positively shot daggers into the darkened wings, eyes trying to penetrate the gloom and alight on his unknown critic, his gloved hands fisting on his thighs.

Carlyle cleared his throat, coloring slightly. "Flagons?"

He drew Holmes by the elbow farther into the wing.

"Start on the stage left props table, on the tray, next to the empty keg." Holmes replied, hands sliding easily into his pants pockets. His attention, however, stayed behind him on stage. An occasional smile played about his lips. He wondered if Kit enjoyed watching these little rehearsals as she sat in the pit, waiting for the real show to start.

"Telescope?" Carlyle pressed.

"On the ledge built in to the back of the pirate ship."

"Which starts where?"

Holmes pointed up at the ceiling. The flat ship creaked in its suspended moorings high above their heads.

"Right. And when do you pre-set it? Before the scene?"

"No, the ship starts the show in the fly gallery. The telescope will need to be set before the ship is struck into the ceiling before curtain up."

"Lace handkerchief?"

"Comes off stage right after Act one Scene two, I run it over to stage left to be included in the palm tree set piece, before it's rolled on for Scene four." Carlyle nodded.

"And at the beginning of the third Act?"

"I am to be in the prompter's booth down stage center to help unfurl the fabric ocean waves."

Carlyle looked him up and down again. "And you're sure you don't need to write any of this down?"

"I do not." Holmes replied, turning back to the troupe on stage. They were a motley looking bunch, more flair than substance. "Do you suppose it's hard to focus on directing a play while suffering from secondary syphilis?" He asked innocently. The man standing next to him choked.

"What?"

"Come now, Mr. Carlyle, you must have noticed the telling rash on the palms of the hands."

"The Director is wearing gloves, Holmes!"

"Exactly. Oh, look, the other actors are coming on. This promises to be entertaining." Holmes stepped back to his position against the wall, peering out as a group of four men shuffled into a semi-circle around Hamlet. They were all shaggy-haired and bleary, but one of them was rather more…tilted than others. Holmes chuckled as he watched the man teeter, unsteady on his feet. One did not need to be a detective to know the man was drunk. Sloppily so. And another surprise! He recognized one of the men from his days in Cambridge. Better and better.

"Hail to your Lordship." The tipsy man called out, seemingly to no one in particular.

"I am glad to see you are well: Horatio, - or I do forget myself." Hamlet cried back, tilting himself a little to see if he could catch the other man's eye. The actor playing Marcellus steadied Horatio with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back upright.

Horatio's mouth opened, his finger waved in front of him. Everyone leaned forward to see if they could will the next words out of him.

Nothing.

Horatio's hand flew to his mouth to stifle a belch.

Downstage, the Director sprung to his feet, dropping his script again, scattering pages everywhere. "My God," he shrieked, "we sail for America in a few weeks' time, you ungrateful, gin soaked, bunch of ingrates! I swear I have never seen so much shillyshallying in all my life! It is an insult to the art! To the _words_!"

The actors did their best to look chastened, but the effect was ruined by the wild peals of laughter ringing out from the stage right wing. Holmes could not help himself. The Director turned on the sound, recognizing the voice of his tormentor from moments ago.

"And you sir," he jabbed his finger blindly at the darkness, "can take your input and cram it right back up the passage of your body that it will hurt the most!" The little man was panting now, fiery red and almost apoplectic looking.

The amused look on Holmes' face as he stepped out into the light on stage did nothing to help matters. The detective was almost afraid that the foaming artist would take a run at him like a goaded bull.

"Who _are_ you, sir?!" The Director bellowed.

"My name is Holmes." The taller man tried to put a soothing note into his voice, concerned that the poor man might drive himself to hemorrhage at any moment.

"This is sheer rudeness, man. We are in the middle of a performance!"

"I pray that is not the case, sir. Your Horatio is lacking his second line of this scene. Not an encouraging start."

"And I'm sure you could do better."

"Of course -" Holmes ran a hand over his slicked hair with no trace of false modesty. "His next is: 'The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.' Followed by: 'A truant disposition, good my lord.' And then by: 'My Lord, I came to see your father's funeral.' To which you reply, " - here Holmes stabbed a finger at poor Hamlet - "'I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student; I think it was to see my mother's wedding.'"

Holmes shrugged as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Horatio weaved, frowning over at Marcellus as if he might be able to elucidate what was happening. Holmes dismissed him with a flippant wave of the hand and addressed Hamlet again. "Indeed my Lord, it followed hard upon."

"Thrift, thrift, Horatio…" Hamlet replied, a smile creeping up his face, "The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father! Methinks I see my father."

"Where my lord?"

"In my mind's eye, Horatio."

"I saw him once; he was a goodly king' – you see?" Holmes broke off, turning to the Director. "Hamlet is one of the most quoted works in the English language. One has ample opportunity to memorize the lines."

The Director's mouth dropped open.

A dry chuckle sounded off stage. Holmes peered into the opposite wing, eyes chasing after the sound. A young man stood between the hanging black curtains that ran along the width of the stage. He was spare, with scrawny arms and legs, and feet that were still too big for him. Holmes narrowed his eyes, peering closer, his tongue darting out to moisten his thin lips.

The boy's clothing was well-kept, but not expensive, most likely attained through a goodwill institution, and therefore untailored. A domestic perhaps? A doorman? Too young. Wrong posture. The boy was finishing a cigarette, which he dropped to the floor and crushed out with his toe, returning his arms firmly behind his back when he had completed the action. A page then. In a good household.

Holmes took a step towards him, and the smile dropped from the boy's face.

Holmes took another step and the boy shied, taking a step back.

"Wait," Holmes cautioned.

The boy bolted, disappearing down the stage right stairs towards the orchestra pit.

"Excuse me gentlemen." Holmes threw over his shoulder as he ran after him, stopping just long enough at the boy's vacated spot to confirm his suspicions. The cigarette was Turkish blend.

Holmes sprinted down the stairs towards the greenroom, ducking through the winding halls and weaving to avoid angry costume mistresses and the occasional half-clad dancer. Actors pressed themselves against the walls to make room for him, sucking in their bellies. He went from room to room, greenroom, orchestra pit, inside dressing rooms with their garish settees and cheap hanging curtains there to give the illusion of warmth and comfort. Nothing. His searches were to no avail.

He bounded back up the stairs and out the stage door, looking up and down the alley in both directions. Damn. Damn. Damnable hubris!

"Holmes?" Carlyle stuck his head through the door, looking not a little put-out. "Are you assisting me with this show, or not?"

Holmes followed him back inside.

* * *

Kit struggled to tie her boots. This was the tricky part. She had managed the rest of her preparations without too much difficulty, but lacing a pair of ladies boots one handed was proving to be too much for her.

She had waited precisely ten minutes after Sherlock Holmes had left the flat before springing into action. The infuriating man could command all he wanted, but until he was ready to physically hold her in place, nothing would stop her from taking care of herself.

He had given her a cup of tea, and then sat there across from her, watching her drink it with that preposterous single index finger leaned against his closed lips. No conversation seemed to interest him, none of her attempts to breach any polite topic at all, no matter how mundane.

Finally, with an air of barely suppressed triumph he had shown her the second thing he had brought to her from his rooms besides the violin. It was the morning addition of the Times, which he had then spread across his lap and began to read out loud to her.

From the agony column no less.

Kit bit down on her lower lip, trying her best to transmute the look of horror on her face into something resembling gratitude. She found herself staring at him with a complete disregard for how impolite it might be, trying to ascertain if he was in earnest, or trying to kill her through some strange form of overt boredom. No, she decided, as he turned the page, clearing his throat and pouring forth more of that now familiar baritone, his intentions did not appear to be malicious. Dear God.

"Mr. Holmes?" She interrupted as politely as possible. This stemmed his flow of words as he peered up at her over the crackling paper.

"Yes, Miss Rushford?"

"Did you happen to bring anything else with you from your rooms?" _A book, perhaps?_ She prayed inwardly, _or could we return to the one I was reading earlier?_

"Why, yes," he said, hand fishing into one of his coat pockets and coming out a moment later with a small white object. "My pipe."

Which he then proceeded to pack with tobacco taken from his other pocket and, lighting it, filled the room with a thick blueish haze.

Kit smiled now at the memory. She could still smell it in the air.

And he really did have a thrilling voice. It was a shame that more often than not he used it to say the most asinine things.

Holding one lace in her free hand, and using the toe of the other shoe to tread on the second lace, she was able to form a messy sort of half-hitch knot and then tuck the loose ends into the top of her boot. Hardly aesthetically pleasing, but useful. Thank goodness that her dress was long enough to hide the whole messy affair from sight.

Throwing a warm shawl over her shoulders she left the house without bag or umbrella, since she was unable to comfortably carry either, and circled around to the front of the building. A slurry breeze blew in her face, but it felt good to be out of the small space above the tailor shop. She turned left and began her walk towards John Street. Holmes may have forbidden her to follow him to the theatre, but he had said nothing about the rest of the city.

* * *

Holmes stepped out of the cab onto John Street, breath clouding before him. He paid the cabbie and pulled his hat down farther on his forehead, trying to keep out the chill and damp. He was weary, he realized, not only from the morning's exercise, but an afternoon and evening of running around the theatre. He was vexed with himself as well, and that hardly helped. He had planned to go fencing that night, but in his present exhausted state, he knew it would be a ridiculous idea. He was, however, prepared to give one more try to locating Miss Rushford's alleged secret passages to Gunpowder Alley.

He looked down the long row of dark windows that fronted the brick warehouses and shops that made up the north side of the street. All seemed quiet and still. None of the windows along that side of the street showed any light or movement. Holmes cocked his head to the side, and then crossed to the south side of the street to get a better look at the length of the opposite block. Not a single window lit. No movement, no indication of any human presence in the whole set of buildings.

A familiar tingle worked its way up the back of his neck, and he felt the excitement start; the feeling he got when a tiny crack in the wall of a well-built lie showed itself.

He hurried back to the north side of the street, the stones under his shoes slick with icy rain water. He kept his head down, studying each doorway, each stoop, finally, about halfway down the street he found what he was looking for.

It was a normal looking doorway, one that seemed to lead to several floors of apartments above. The doorknob was burnished, more so than the knobs on the doors on either side.

This door had gotten far more use. The paint around the facing plate was grimier too, and there were bubbles in the moisture on the stoop from shoes passing over it recently.

He impulsively grasped the knob and tried it. The door swung open easily, revealing a long narrow corridor, disappearing into the gloom of the building interior.

Holmes stepped in, closing the door softly behind him. The walls were built of unfinished plaster and lathe. He paused to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the light. Looking back at the entrance he saw that the windows on either side of the door had been papered over to keep them dark. Someone had installed closed curtains and then papered over them to make doubly sure. Holmes nodded in approval. He held his breath, listening.

There were shuffled footsteps above him by several floors, and murmured voices somewhere far away to the left, rising and falling indistinctly.

Lit candles sat in sconces at shoulder height every few feet down the passage, giving off a low, watery light.

He walked forward, able to touch the wall on either side of him with his fingers while keeping his elbows tucked into his sides. On his left a passageway opened up, barley large enough to be called a doorway. A man would have to stoop and turn sideways to enter. It led to a stairway, also lit with dripping candles. A few steps farther and a similar passage opened up on the right. Again, the plaster and lathe had simply been knocked through, most likely with a claw hammer judging by the markings, giving access to more rooms and passages.

He inhaled deeply, smelling mould, dust, damp plaster, filthy linen and the faint acrid scent of opium. He smelled unwashed people as well, many years' worth of them, dried blood, vomit, and decay.

How stupid of him not to have realized immediately, he thought. The whole block was a façade. The walls had been breached years ago, turning the whole line of buildings into a single hive-like marketplace of vice.

There was door at the far end of the passage, and Holmes guessed that this let out into Gunpowder Alley, supplying the streetwalkers and pimps a perfect way of cutting swiftly away from any unwanted police presence on either street.

A noise caught his attention. Someone was moving in one of the unseen side passages ahead of him. He hugged the wall, creeping forward on noiseless feet, fingers ghosting against the slick plaster, breathing quietly through his nose.

There was a passage to his right, directly in front of him. He listened intently. Somewhere above him there was a crash of breaking glass, and the dull roar of people cheering. The feet in the passage moved, coming closer to him. Whoever the mystery person was, he was standing right around the corner from Holmes. He could almost feel the warmth of this other unknown body.

Another footstep.

Holmes lashed out, snapping his hand down to grab the first thing he came in contact with. A wrist. He yanked hard, and was rewarded with a muffled cry. A body hurled past him into the main passage, hitting the opposite wall with a thud, Holmes only a second behind, pinning the man with a forearm across his throat.

A faint floral smell stopped him in his tracks. He managed to contain a howl of anger that nearly escaped him, turning it into a frustrated growl as he glared down at Kit Rushford.

Her face was pressed sideways, eyes squeezed tightly shut. A delicate pink mark bloomed on her cheek where it had connected roughly with the wall.

"What are you doing here?" He hissed at her.

"You told me not to follow you," she gasped. "I didn't"

He could have throttled her. "Miss Rushford, I do not like semantics."

"And I do not like being unable to breathe, Mr. Holmes," she gasped out. He ground his teeth together for a moment. "Sherlock, you're hurting me."

He started, and then eased his arm off so that she could take several deep cold gulps of air.

"How did you find your way in here?" She gasped, placing her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. His arm became ridged at her touch, and she removed it immediately, realizing that she had also just committed the sin of calling him by his first name. If there was anything he would never forgive her for, it was that.

"How does one find anything, Miss Rushford? I looked for it." His tone was even, but she sensed that his body remained tense. "And you?"

"I just tried all the knobs until I found the right one."

He huffed out a great disgusted breath, and she could not keep the smile from quirking the corner of her mouth. "And it seems I have beaten you to the punch."

He opened his mouth to snap something back, but his reproach died in his throat. Unfortunately, she was right. His eyes dropped down to the sling across her chest, and he noted that her other hand rested against the wall at her side. A sickening thought hit him. "I didn't _really_ hurt you, did I?"

"A little," she admitted, "but only my throat." He grunted and turned away, swiping a hand across his stricken face. He pointed down the corridor she had been hiding in.

"What lies this way?"

"There is a staircase leading to the second floor. Doesn't it strike you as odd that there is no guard at the entrances to this place?"

"I believe that to be on purpose." He crossed towards the passage, ducking to enter the secondary corridor. There was a wooden staircase, and at the top the faint glow of more candles. A rat shot across his vision, disappearing into one of the many small holes in the plaster along the floor. The smell of opium was stronger here.

Voices broke into his thoughts from the top of the stairs, followed by the sound of footsteps.

Holmes darted back out into the main passage and took Kit by the arm, drawing her back towards the John Street entrance. Too late, he heard steps on the stairs, and the voices grew louder.

He ducked left into the first opening he saw, dragging Kit after him. There was no staircase here, just another long low passage, the floor littered with betting slips and broken bottles. It was too long to make it to the end before the footsteps came upon them. He hurried ahead, blowing out the candles closest to them, and then came back and pressed Kit to the small corner of the wall directly inside the jagged opening and shielded her with his body, hoping his dark coat would make them harder to see in the gloom.

Kit held her breath as she realized that the entire length of Sherlock Holmes' body was pressed against her, his palms braced on either side of her head. He turned his head towards her, bringing his mouth close to her ear. His sweaty forehead pressed against her hair,

"Three men." He breathed, so low she had to still her heart to hear it, despite the fact that his lips almost brushed her earlobe. "One is a big man, with a barrel chest and a slight limp. It is a hip injury. Fairley resent."

Their chests rose and fell together, in rhythm.

"The second man is young. No more than a boy," he continued. "Large feet. His shoes are new, but too small for him. " Holmes closed his eyes, listening intently. Kit could see nothing over his shoulder; her face was turned inward, into the crook of his neck. His collar pressed a starched line across her face. She inhaled the deep strange smell she had come to recognize as his mix of aftershave, hair product and some personal undefinable heat.

She heard the footsteps come closer. They must be nearing their hiding place. Sharp words were now ringing out against the close walls.

"It's not my fault," one of them was whining. "The old Lady's bats. I'm lucky I was able to put hands on one, let alone going back for more."

"Well, you'll have to do something. I'm tired of waiting. You can't come here and not play by the rules. If the old lady is flush, let her part with a little more." A smooth voice shot back.

"The third man is from Soho." Holmes whispered. "Cigar smoker. Young, well groomed, well dressed. He has money in his pockets."

The footsteps stopped directly abreast of Holmes and Kit, on the other side of the flimsy plaster wall. One of them leaned against the partition, and the thud of a hand so close to her head made Kit start. Holmes' hand snaked out and covered her mouth before she could gasp. He leaned back slightly, looking a warning down at her. Her gaze met him unwaveringly, and he was surprised to see no trace of fear in her look. Only excitement and expectation. She was waiting to see what he would do so that she might follow and execute her part.

 _How extraordinary,_ he thought, mentally congratulating her for her courage as he removed his hand, feeling the shape of her lips still pressed into his hot palm.

"We can still get the first one." The youngest of the three whined. "I made a mistake is all; we can have this fixed by tomorrow."

A click echoed in the quiet space, and Holmes knew he did not need to inform Kit that it was the sound of a pocket knife snapping open. The younger man's breathing became more ragged, and there was a sudden burst of movement. The big man had grabbed the youngest, forcing his face against the wall. Holmes did not dare raise his head any further to get a look, he was dangerously close to having his shoulder visible from the hallway as it was. He heard soft laughter from nearby, and he kept Kit's eyes locked with his, willing her to stay composed.

"I thought that might get your attention," the smooth voice said. "Do something, boy. I don't care what it is, but get it done fast. Charlie here is getting very anxious to settle your account."

There was a deep grunt from the bigger man.

"Mess me about any more and I'll slice the eyes right out of you," the smooth one continued. "And then I'll do the same for that sister of yours."

The click sounded again and two sets of feet moved off. The main door to John Street opened and closed. There was a moment of shaky breathing and cursing, and then the third set of footprints moved slowly towards the door. A match scratched and flared, and then the smell of smoke filled the space. Holmes' eyebrows twitched.

"Turkish." He informed Kit, before he disengaged himself from her and stepped out into the hallway.

The young man from the theatre stood a few feet ahead of Holmes, head hung forward and a wild look in his watery eyes. His head came up with a jolt of surprise and fear when Holmes appeared so close to him. The cigarette shook in his hand. A small spot of blood welled and trickled down his long white neck. Holmes gave him the barest flicker of a smile before holding up his empty hands. "I only wish to ask you a few questions, Mr. Tilby."

The youth started. "Don't-" Holmes commanded, too late.

The boy threw the cigarette into Holmes' face. It bounced off his cheek, singeing him, causing him to turn slightly as Davey Tilby ran for the door, slamming it behind him.

Holmes turned to Kit, pointing a finger directly into her face. "Can you smell it?" his voice boomed in the small space, eyes sparking with excitement at the thrill of the chase. "The man from Soho? He wears Mr. Brewster's Cosmetic _Lime_ _Wax_ for Gentlemen! Is it the same smell from the night you were attacked?"

Kit took a deep breath, confused, but willing to try for his sake. There was a faintly citrus smell in the air under the cigarette smoke, mixed with some kind of hair tonic or lotion. The combination gave her a sickening lurch in her stomach. "It is."

"Take a cab home this instant. Do not disobey me again."

He turned on his heel and raced out of the passage after the fleeing man.

Holmes' shoes slid on the wet pavement as he crashed out into the street, gratefully dragging in huge lungful's of the open air. Tilby had a head start, and was already pounding down Vine Street, yards ahead of Holmes, who took off after him without a moment's pause.

Kit came out the door directly after, just in time to see both men turn the corner, heading in the direction of Tower Wharf. They were already too far ahead for her to dream of catching up, even if her footwear had allowed her to move at a run.

Faces were appearing at the top windows of the opposite building, peering down to see if there was reason to flee.

A cab turned the corner and Kit threw her hand up, letting out a piercing whistle.

The cabbie pulled to an admiring stop beside her, a wrung-out dishrag of a man with drooping grey side whiskers. She climbed into the cab as carefully as she was able in her rush, pointing after the disappearing runners.

"Double the fare if you keep those two in sight."

The cabbie cracked his whip without comment and sent them jolting ahead, pulling a wide swinging turn onto Vine.

* * *

 **Really appreciating all the awesome comments so far. Keep 'em coming!**


	6. Throwing Rocks

Holmes reached as far down as he could into his reserves of energy, pushing himself to run faster after the boy weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic before him.

His breath was already burning his throat, his arms pistons at his sides as he followed Davey Tilby. They went past Hanover Street, feet crunching and slipping in the gravel as they crossed the railway tracks and shot into the Crescent at the end of Hammet Street.

To Holmes it seemed that no matter how hard he pushed, he could not close the distance between himself and the younger man. He dodged around a flower seller (born somewhere in Ratcliff – most probably around Rose Lane, a costermonger's daughter whose husband had recently died and left her with at least three small children), and then jumped to avoid a legless man slithering across his path, intent on making it to the gutter (former soldier, workhouse casualty, spent a great deal of time begging around Stonehouse Wharf, if the mud on his torn pants was anything to go by).

Tilby raced across Trinity Mews, and then into the square, throwing the occasional glance back over his shoulder to see if Holmes was still pacing him. He hopped the wrought-iron fence surrounding the park, and Holmes kept to the outside, feet pounding loudly on the sidewalk, jarring his knees and spine. He could feel the muscles of his lower back tighten with each step, jerking in pain.

Davey turned left down Great Tower Hill and then left again at the water, towards Queen's Stairs and Traitor's Gate.

The sounds and bustle of the river suddenly surrounded them, open fires and the cries of waterside beggars and sellers and children and mothers. Davey bobbed through the crowds, shoving himself down an alley barely large enough to admit his shoulders. Holmes followed, tripping on a pile of discarded rope.

Wilted cabbage leaves, rotten apples and dripping tomatoes rained down on their heads, and Holmes realized that the dwellers in the rooms overlooking the alley where pelting him with last week's garbage. Someone tossed a boot, and it grazed the detective's shoulder and bounced against the alley wall, nearly becoming entangled in his feet.

Ahead of him, Davey slipped and crashed into a pile of wooden crates leaned precariously against the opposite wall. He righted himself and ran on. Holmes turned sideways to squeeze past the boxes, sweat stinging his eyes. The stench of the river was overwhelming.

They came out of the alley, and Davey veered down another street bringing them even closer to the water. They ran across several rickety jetties, all housing a collection of river shacks and boats moored four and five abreast, creating a bobbing bridge.

Barges choked the waterway. Tugs belching thick smoke and row boats darted in an out between the larger vessels.

Between the coal smoke, loud-voiced cries, open sewage, rotting food, tar, and the stench of river rats and dogs and cats, the whole scene was a dark fetid hellish circus, and Holmes ran on, seeing bright spots, fighting the terrible cramps in his legs and sides. Even Davey was slowing, his footsteps becoming sloppy and unsure.

He turned suddenly onto a jetty, high off the water, resting half-cocked on tall spindly wooden stilts that disappeared down into the sucking mud of the river bank.

Holmes breathed a prayer of thanks. Finally, a dead end. A tug boat plowed through the water close by, the men all coming to the railing to see the termination of the chase.

Holmes allowed himself to slow, not trusting his footing on the spongy wood boards. But Davey's speed increased, and Holmes groaned out loud when he realized what was about to happen.

"Tilby, this is my last clean shirt!" He yelled. Too late, the younger man had reached the end of the jetty and without a moments pause, launched himself into the air, aiming for the tug boat that was coming abreast of him. Homes held his breath, watching the bent bow of the younger man's body sail through the air, arms flared out behind him as if trying to catch the air and glide.

Tilby landed with a thud on the deck of the tug, losing his footing and tumbling over and over until he collided with the base of the smoke stack, finally coming to a rest flat on his face, gasping for breath.

Holmes did not let himself pause to think, he increased his speed. The tug was already clawing its way dangerously far from the jetty. Homes pushed every other thought from his mind, focused on his lungs, his feet, his knees pumping as fast as he could as he flung himself over the end into nothing, trying to gain as much height as possible with his final jump.

For a split second he was suspended, black chopping water roared beneath him, the air steeped in smoke.

His feet connected with the water, jarring all the way up his body, and then he was submerged in the cold dark broth of the Thames. Black sludge invaded his ears and nose. His lungs screamed, and he clawed upwards, finding no purchase. His head broke the surface of the water with an uncontrolled yell.

He thrashed, feeling the weight of his soaking clothes draw him back down. His arms pin wheeled, and his wrist came in contact with something hard, causing the bone to ache and numb. He tried to turn to get a look at the object, but a second later a calloused hand closed on his collar and he was jerked upward and dumped unceremoniously into the reeking bow of a small row boat.

He coughed, rolled over onto his back and spat out a mouthful of river water. It took a second before he was able to focus on the shape of the man in the boat with him.

He was a burley middle-aged man with gnarled hands and a crooked bulbous nose. His face and worn oils skins were streaked in soot and tar.

"Sherlock Homes." The detective managed to splutter.

"No," the man tapped his chest. "Bart Adams. The boat is the _Magpie_. I collects the river jetsam and sells it on to the rag and bone shops. You're my first live man I've ever pulled out." He seemed rather pleased.

"After the tug." Holmes gasped, gesturing wildly at the retreating boat.

"Are you mad?" The man (Born and raised around Dock Head, unless Sherlock was very much mistaken) shook his head in disbelief. "We'll not catch her in the _Maggie_."

Another tug was cresting alongside them. Holmes coughed and spat, desperate to dislodge the vile mixture of slime and sewage from his mouth and throat. "Give me the rope."

The owner of the row boat paused, and Holmes gestured desperately. "Hurry up!"

The tug was beside them now, and several sailors stood along the side, looking down at the night-black madman just pulled out of the water.

Adams kicked the coil over to him. Holmes grabbed the end and flung it over the side towards the sailors.

"Catch."

One of them did, more from reflex than anything else.

"Make it fast." Holmes commanded. The sailor must have realized what was going to happen, because his eyes widened and a smile broke out on his face, revealing a mouthful of stained and broken teeth. He ran the rope to the stern of the boat and tied it around a cleat.

The coil at the bottom of the rowboat hissed out, snapped taught, and flung the rowboat around in the water, dragging her after the tug stern-first. Holmes and Adams were jerked off their feet, landing in a messy pile on top of each other on the floor of the small boat.

* * *

Kit's cab pulled to a slithering stop at the wharf, the cabbie stood to view the spectacle taking place on the river.

They both watched as Tilby jumped, a pale flash against the dark of the river. A moment later and Kit saw the now familiar figure of the detective follow him, legs still running even as he sailed through the air, hitting the water with a sickeningly distant splash.

What an unbelievably stupid, obnoxious, egocentric, stubborn, thick-headed, dim-witted man!

She watched the row boat approach, and heaved a breath of relief when she saw the body of the detective hauled from the water. A moment later the rope flew out, and the boat spun like a top, bobbing after the steam powered tug like a piece of flotsam caught in a net.

"Take St. Katharine Street," she instructed the cabbie. "Stay as close to the water as you can."

The cabbie whipped the horses back into movement, and Kit fell off her feet back into her seat.

* * *

Holmes fought to get his bearings in the dark. They were heading towards Wapping Basin. He could make out the wharfs as they went past. Harrison's, South Devon, Hare's, Watson's, Browns Quay.

He had regained his feet and stood in the stern, leaning forward with his fist in the air, yelling up at the sailors "Can't this tub go any faster?!"

The tug chugged on indifferently.

He cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, but it seemed he was being ignored. That or the crew members honestly couldn't hear him.

The captain of their little boat sat himself in the bow, leaning on the oars nestled in their oarlocks. "Hold your horses, you mad bricky man." His eyes flicked up at Holmes, and then he reached into his oilskins to pull out his pipe. "I'm downright ashamed of myself for not thinking of this years ago. I'll never have to pull an oar again."

The man puffed on his pipe for a moment, the foul smoke from the damp tobacco streaming out behind him in the breeze. "We'll get 'em, you'll see. They have the head start, but we're hitched to a faster ride." Adams coughed and spat over the side, rubbing the side of his flaming and misshapen nose.

Holmes had to admit that the older man was right. The space between the two boats was disappearing at a noticeable rate.

Tilby must have seen the same thing, because as they passed Globe Wharf there was a splash, accompanied by the sound of distant cheering from the first tug. Holmes strained his eyes in the dark.

"He's jumped." He waved his arms at the men on their lead tug, pointing at the dark water. "He's jumped!"

None of them seemed interested in lending a hand. One waved back. Holmes bellowed in frustration.

"Knife." He yelled at his companion.

"Now, hold on, just because some might be inclined to call me a waterside character, doesn't mean I go armed, I'm a peaceable-"

"Knife!" Holmes roared again.

Adams drew a long filleting knife out of his boot, handing it over handle first, a pout in his craggy face. "It's for just in case, like…"

Holmes slashed at the rope, which parted and unfurled, snapping with a loud hiss of flying hemp. The row boat slowed with such alacrity that both men were thrown off their feet again, landing in a heap on top of each other.

"The stairs," Holmes was able to splutter from the ground. "Pull! Pull! Pull!"

Adams grabbed his oars and pulled, using the ripples of the passing barges to propel them in towards shore. Holmes clung to the bow of the boat, leaning out over the water like some preposterous figurehead, as if he could speed the dingy by will alone. His clothes were stiff with cold and sludge, blackened from head to toe. His slim figure bunched ready to spring the second he was in range of the stairs.

Tilby floundered onto the stairs first, smacking his hands against the slimy stone of the steps. He scrambled up, crawling up the flight on all fours, gasping as he did.

A moment later the row boat crashed against the stairs, and Holmes leapt out, slipped, righted himself, took them two at a time.

"Oy," Adams called after him, "who's going to replace my rope?"

* * *

Kit's cab raced along St. Kathrine until it had to hook back around to join onto Lower Smithfield, thundering across the Hermitage Basin. They could still make out the boats in the river. There was a pale flash in the air again, and then the row boat seemed to stop, spin in the water, and head towards the bank.

"High Street," she said. "I think they're somewhere around Union Stairs."

The cabbie complied without hesitation, and as they came abreast of Plough Alley he jerked them to a sudden stop.

Kit jumped out, landing a little unsteadily, and called back over her shoulder as she hurried towards the stairs. "Please wait."

The boy from John Street was just coming up over the top of the stairs, and Kit felt a sick feeling in her already churning stomach when she realized that it was indeed Davey Tilby, Lucy's younger brother. How many times had the three of them walked home from the theatre together?

He was slipping and panting, wobbly on his feet. Holmes was coming, but he would never make it up the steps in time to catch Davey before he disappeared into the maze of streets that made up the London Docks.

She cast her eyes around franticly, looking for anything that might help, not even sure what she needed help with. Her eyes came to rest on a pile of loose stone against a nearby piling. She picked up a few of the rocks, and hurled the first without letting herself stop to consider that it was her friend's only family that she was trying to hit.

Her first rock missed, as did her second, but the third clipped the young man in the shoulder, just as he was about to enter the mouth of Globe Street. He lost his balance, teetering into the wall beside him. Her next rock grazed his cheek, ricocheting into his left eye and then bouncing off the same brick wall. He fell with a scream, hands covering his face.

"Davey?" She ran over to where he lay, flapping against the dirty pavement like a fish pulled from the river. She could hear his whimpers leaking out from between his bloody hands.

"Davey? It's Kit." He put out his hand, clawing in the air for the body connected with that voice. Kit took a step back. He grabbed the hem of her dress with a snarl and dragged himself to his knees, blood running down the side of his face from a small cut below his eye.

He surged to his feet, grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her back into the brick wall behind them.

"Bitch," he wheezed, still heaving for breath from his recent swim. "Why do you always have to ruin everything?!" His hand rose in a blur above them, and Kit squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the hit.

In the dark behind her eyelids she heard pounding feet, and then felt something jar against her, a huff of breath, and the weight of Davey Tilby against her was gone. Her eyes snapped open.

He was on the ground, Sherlock Holmes scrabbling up off of him, dragging him up with him by the wet shirt front. Holmes tossed him against the wall, and the air rushed out of Tilby's lungs, rendering him docile as a lamb. An embarrassed look crept over his young face.

Holmes rounded on her, eyes wild, sweating and streaming water and filth. "Are you all right?"

"What?"

"Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"

"No – no, I'm fine."

Sherlock tuned with a growl on Tilby again, driving a hard fist into the younger man's stomach. Tilby groaned and doubled over, clutching himself. Holmes drew back his arm, but Kit managed to get to him in time, laying her hand on the back of his neck, twisting him around to look at her.

"Sherlock, stop. I'm fine." She fought to meet his eye. "Look at him, he's terrified. I'm well. No one has hurt me."

His shoulders rose and fell for a moment. She could see him considering, adrenaline slowly ebbing away. Finally his hand reached for her, grasping the back of her neck under her hair, and pulled her closer to him. "Promise me?"

She took several deep breaths, willing him to do the same with her, fighting the urge to put her arm around him, ease the tension out of his back and shoulders.

"Yes. I promise."

He dropped his hand then, and turned back to Tilby. Whatever violence had possessed him was gone. He took a few steps away from the boy, braced his hands against his knees, and concentrated on regaining his breath.

"Whatever possessed you to do something so stupid?!" He roared.

It took Kit a moment to realize he was still talking to her. "Me?!" She was so taken aback that she forgot to be angry for a moment. Thankfully, that passed quickly. "You just nearly drowned yourself in the Thames, you stupid man. What in God's name did _you_ think you were doing?!"

"What did I think _I_ was doing?! _I_ was following a lead."

"Harassing an innocent man, you mean," Davey puffed out.

"Wait your turn, Tilby." Holmes snapped at him. "I'll get to you in a moment."

"It's Davey," Kit shot back. "I could have just _told_ you where to find him. I know where he lives. There was no need to disrupt half of London from Blackfriars to Rotherhithe and nearly kill yourself in the process."

"Woman! For once try to think analytically. He owes a huge amount of money that he obviously can't pay. His only sister is being threatened. His very life is in danger. He's not going home. He's never going home again. He's already decided to go straight to Victoria Station with just the clothes on his back."

"You suppose."

"I deduce! Have you learned nothing in the last few days?"

"Davey?" Kit turned on the younger man, who kept his eyes cast down.

Holmes straightened up and snapped his fingers under Davey's nose.

"It's true," Davey started. "Although I don't know how you figured it."

"I know it's cold, Tilby, but you're wearing three sweaters under that coat and two pairs of pants. You're also wearing a St. Christopher's medallion that you weren't wearing the first time I saw you. You've obviously decided to take a trip in some hurry, without wanting anyone to be alerted by the presence of a bag. Add that to your gambling debts, and well, it's elementary, really."

Holmes leaned his back against the brick wall beside Davey, and the two of them seemed content to stay still and rest for a moment.

"Listen," Holmes said finally, trying to get his hair back into some kind of order. "Be a good sport and tell me who you owe the money to. I'll find out anyway, but it would save me so much time if you would just tell me."

Davey sighed. "His name is Harry Wilcox."

"Harry _The Tash_ Wilcox? He's a confidence man from Soho isn't he? What is he doing this far east?"

"Harry were wrapped up in the resurrection business for a while with the cove who runs the John Street warehouses. He introduced The Tash to the gambling floors there a few months back. He's hired Harry and his Soho crew to help do collections and the like."

"The resurrection business?" Kit already knew she wouldn't like the answer.

Holmes hummed. "Procuring dead bodies for those in the medical profession that might want them, for…various reasons." He turned his attention back to Davey. "What did you take? What were you going to use to try and pay Harry back?"

"What makes you think I'm gonna tell you?" The young man set his shoulders resolutely, ready to dig in and get stubborn. To his surprise Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his long hand and said "Fine. I'll figure it out soon enough. I have four different theories. One of them will prove correct. I just need one more piece of information, which I can get elsewhere."

Davey's eyes widened in disbelief, then anger. "So what did you bother chasing me over Hell's half-acre for? I'm a sodding mess!"

"You can't guess? How tiresome. I did it for Miss Rushford."

Kit and Davey shot a look at each other, but neither seemed any more enlightened than the other.

"I'll tell you what I'm wondering," Holmes continued. "I know _why_ you stole whatever it was, and I know why you had to give Kit over to them. I even know why they took the trouble of loading her into a cart and bringing her all the way back to the theatre, but what I can't explain to her is why they did what they did to her hands. I can guess. But she won't believe me. She needs to hear it from you."

Davey's eyes slid over to Holmes, an unmistakable pleading look there.

"What do you mean?" Kit took a few steps closer. "What do I need to hear?"

Holmes indicated Kit with his head, not taking his eyes from Davey's face. "Tell her."

"I don't know what you mean." He returned, trying to keep his chin from trembling.

"Davey…" she said.

Holmes slapped Tilby across the mouth, the sharp sound startling all three of them.

Davey grabbed his cheek, a strange expression spread over his face, as if he couldn't decide if he was more hurt or offended. Holmes raised his hand again.

"Stop," Davey ducked his head in defeat. "It was for Lucy." He darted an angry look at Kit, and she was surprised at the sheen of hatred she suddenly saw there. "She would have been lead violin at that place if it hadn't been for you," he continued. "Ruining her chances. Always making her come second."

Kit felt the whole world slow and settle on her shoulders. "What do you mean? She never mentioned anything like this to me." She didn't know why she was whispering. "Davey-" Kit took a few steps closer to him. "Are you telling me that, this," she looked down at her bandaged hands "was something you told these men to do?"

Davey refused to meet her eye. "And now you've ruined Lucy again,' he continued. "If I can't pay, they'll do for her as well."

"Davey, look me in the eye," she demanded. "You told them to do this?"

A movement caught Holmes' eye. Two policemen rounded the corner at the other end of Globe Street and were ambling towards their small group.

"Miss Rushford-" Holmes tried to cut in. Kit ignored him. She closed the distance between herself and Davey, making it impossible for him to avoid eye contact with her. His shoulders slumped further before he admitted "I told them that if your hands where broken in the mess, then a few people would have reason to be grateful." He looked sheepishly up at her.

"Miss Rushford-" Holmes tried again.

"I'm sorry, Kit. I just wanted to help Lucy."

With one swift sure kick to the groin Kit emptied Davey's lungs of air again. He collapsed to the ground, moaning in pain. Holmes stared at the wailing heap with wide-eyed surprise.

A police whistle blared, and Holmes could hear the two officers break into a run towards them. He seized Kit by the shoulders and spun her back towards where the cab was still waiting by Plough Alley.

"We need to go."

Tilby reached out from where he was still crumpled in a heap and grabbed Holmes' leg, pulling his foot out from under him. The detective stumbled and sprawled onto the ground. Tilbey grabbed his other foot, latching onto the taller man like a limpet. Holmes tried to kick himself free, but realized that there was no time.

"Leave at once," he commanded Kit.

"Not without you."

"Miss Rushford, disobey me one more time tonight, and I swear I will personally break your other hand myself."

The police were almost there, whistles blared loudly, Holmes kicked hard, connecting with Davey's shoulder, but not hard enough to dislodge him. His energy was spent, his body ached, and he could tell Davey was insensible to reason or pain at this point, desperate that someone should fall with him.

Kit took a few steps, turned back.

"Kit," Holmes managed to get to his knees. "Please go."

She ran back to the cab, only looking back when she had seated herself inside.

By that time Sherlock was face down on the pavement, a billy wielding officer kneeling on his back. Davey was in the same position.

She knocked on the roof of the cab. "The Diogenes club," she instructed.

The cab rattled off into the night, leaving her friend's brother and her detective nose down in the cold street.


	7. Love and Vegetarianism

_"Holmes, this is ridiculous," I exclaimed. "You can't really expect me to believe it!"_

 _Holmes stared for a long minute into the fire, the light of the flames dancing on the sharp planes and angles of his face. He had drawn his feet under him during the telling of his tale, and now seemed to hover there in his chair, caught between the physical present and the intangible past._

 _"When have you ever known me to exaggerate Watson?"_

 _"But really, old boy, running all over the riverside? Gutted buildings? Resurrectionists from Soho? Keeping company with a female? Next you'll tell me that you took up marathon dancing, lovemaking, and vegetarianism."_

 _Holmes lifted one slim arched eyebrow at me. "I did once have a rather long and interesting discussion with Mrs. Anthony about vegetarianism."_

 _"Susan B. Anthony? The abolitionist?"_

 _"She was touring through the United States giving lectures on the suffragette movement when I met her."_

 _"Suffragettes? Now really, Homes, this is too much."_

 _"Have you never observed, Watson, the correlation between suffragettes and vegetarianism? No? How curious."_

 _I stared at my friend, unsure whether to take him seriously or not. Meanwhile, he calmly packed his pipe from the Persian slipper hanging from the corner of the mantel and afterwards offered the slipper to me. I realized that my own pipe had been hanging cold in my limp hand. It must have been that way for some time, given how wrapped up I was in the story. I was not unfamiliar with my friend's idiosyncratic tales of his own cases, but this one did seem distinctly out of character. So badly handled. Such blundering was distinctly un-Holmesian._

 _I filled my pipe and watched him stretch his arms over his head and glance around the room, looking for something. His face cleared when his gaze landed on his violin and for a moment I feared he might abandon his narrative unfinished and begin another of his eccentric compositions._

 _"Holmes?" I ventured._

 _"Hmm?"_

 _"What happened next?"_

 _"To whom?"_

 _"Were you arrested?"_

 _"Most certainly."_

 _"And Tilby?"_

 _Holmes waved his hand imperiously through the air at the mention of the name. "I no longer think of him. Consider him no more."_

 _I took a long draw on my pipe before asking again, more quietly this time "Then what happened to you?"_

 _"Dear God, Watson, I had just been thoroughly disobeyed, which I cannot tolerate, run myself ragged, which I abhor, and nearly drowned myself in the stinking Thames. I did what any mortal man would do. I became violently and deliriously ill."_

* * *

The cell door clanged open and a young constable pointed out the prone figure of Sherlock Holmes to his very angry older brother.

"There he is, sir. Public disturbance charge, I think. Apparently the constables also saw him causing a young woman some trouble, but she had bolted by the time they got there."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath, then instantly regretted it. The air in the cells was stale and mildew-laden. The room was small and cold, three walls of stone, the fourth a set of steel bars that looked out into the hall. Sherlock lay prone on the floor, head pillowed on one still-soggy arm. He was pale and shivering.

"I think he's delirious," the young constable continued. "He's been on and on about all sorts of deep sea creatures and pocket handkerchiefs and the like. A few of the boys were after knocking him out to save him some of the suffering."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the whole situation and finally turned to leave, not sparing a second glance back at his younger brother. "Have him brought out front. There is a cab waiting."

He left the very confused constable behind.

Mycroft exited the police station and headed towards his cab, waiting by the front door. Kit was there, and he was frustrated to see that although he had asked her to stay seated within the cab while he was inside, she had disobeyed his request, and was pacing the pavement. Did this woman ever do anything she was asked? If she was able, she would have been wringing her hands.

* * *

He had been settling into his favorite armchair in the farthest plush corner of the most inaccessible room of the Diogenes club when the Doorman had stuck his head into the room.

Confirming that the object of his quest was indeed here, he had crossed the carpeted room noiselessly, and leaned down to whisper a few words in Mycroft's ear. If Mycroft had been a different kind of man he would have jumped from his seat. Thankfully, he was not, and decorum was preserved. Instead, he folded his paper neatly and fixed the Doorman with a very stern, if somewhat lethargic stare.

" _Who_ did you say was asking for me?"

"A woman, sir. At the front door. She says your brother has been arrested after a near drowning in the Thames, and is in need of your help."

"How inconvenient," Mycroft sighed, glancing forlornly at his as-yet unread evening paper. "I haven't had the chance to have my supper yet."

* * *

"Did you find him? Is he alright?" Kit pounced on him the moment he was in sight.

"Yes, he's there. Sick, I believe. I cannot say with any level of certainty. One thing I am sure of though, is that he will need a change of clothes."

Kit's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh of relief, quickly replaced by a new concern. "Is he very sick? Will he need a doctor?"

"I have no idea, my dear. I observed that all his limbs seemed to be intact and working. I saw no need to assess anything further. I fear we will have ample opportunity to discover more very soon."

Even as he said it the recumbent form of the world's only consulting detective was carried out of the station over a large policeman's shoulder, looking like a sack of potatoes. The sick man was dumped unceremoniously in the waiting cab.

"Thank you, Hopkins." Sherlock called after him, apparently still set on clinging to his last vestiges of dignity. It didn't last long, since in the next instant his head fell with a solid thump against the door of the cab.

Kit scrambled into the seat beside him, hooking her arm around his shoulders and bringing him gently away from the wall to rest his head on her shoulder instead. He did not seem to be aware of the movement.

"Brother Mycroft?" he asked, not opening his eyes.

Mycroft hoisted himself into the cab and squished himself in between Kit and the door. "What is it Sherlock?" His voice was cross.

"Don't let me forget to ask you to return an item, one long piece of rope, to be specific, to a waterside resident named Bart Adams. He runs a boat called the _Magpie_ down by Tower Wharf."

"Really, Sherlock, hadn't you better just keep your mouth shut for a good solid space of time? My charity does not spring eternal."

He knocked his cane on the roof of the cab, and called out to the driver "Bread Street."

* * *

Once back to the small sitting room above the tailor shop the kettle was boiled repeatedly, a tin washtub filled, and the quivering detective dumped in.

This process was a great deal more distressing for Mycroft than either of the others, since Sherlock was comfortably unconscious, and Kit had retired demurely to another room, leaving Mycroft to deal with all the sordid realities of washing and dressing a very sick and dirty man all by himself.

The gaslight hissed and smoked, threw off a meager light, and stung Mycroft's eyes. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub onto his thighs, polished dress shoes, and the threadbare carpet.

Kit remembered that Sherlock had mentioned that his brother swore very little, but it was becoming obvious that the detective had not been around the elder Holmes at the appropriate moments, since the words she heard coming out of the bedroom at regular intervals would make a sailor proud.

By the time the brothers were done she had managed to get a small fire going in the dog grate of the room occupied by Holmes the younger. The dull beige walls did very little to help the light of the fire illuminate the room.

Dressing, dragging, and tumbling him into bed proved to be the very limits of Mycroft's capabilities, and as soon as he was done he staggered from the room, leaving Kit to tuck up the covers around the detective's chin.

The overly exerted government official collapsed onto the couch in the sitting room, taking great heaving pinches of snuff to calm himself from his late exertions.

"This is a black day for our family," he grumbled as Kit entered the room and perched on one of the chairs by the parlour stove, nervously tracing her fingers over the lace fabric calla lilies on the upholstery. "We've never been excessively proud of Sherlock," he continued. "He really is the least talented of us, but he _was_ taught propriety. Dignity. Some sort of familial loyalty. If word of this reaches mother, I'll never have another day of peace." He played distractedly with his black Farnsworth silk tie, nearly dislodging the sterling silver tie pin.

"Can I get you anything?" Kit asked.

"A glass of the King's Ginger Liqueur would be much appreciated."

"Mmm. The slight problem with that, of course, is that we don't have any. I was thinking more along the lines of tea."

Mycroft huffed and rolled his eyes. "Then I am leaving. I am having a hard time imagining anything more tedious than spending any more time in this squalid little room with you two. When I suggested you both figure out how to get along on your own I had imagined that you'd do a significantly better job than this." He lumbered up and made for the door, when something stopped him. Some pang of brotherly guilt, Kit supposed, since he seemed to ask against his will "I don't suppose you two will need anything, will you?"

"Perhaps Mr. Holmes' shaving supplies and a fresh pair of clothes?" She ventured timidly.

"And my newspapers." A weak voice from the bedroom called.

"Which newspapers?" Mycroft roared back.

"From my rooms," came the reply.

"How am I to know which ones?"

"Bring them all." The yell degenerated into a wet cough and Kit winced at the sound. She gave Mycroft an apologetic smile.

"Perhaps some food would help? And a doctor?"

She opened the door for him as politely as she could. He gave her an imperious look. "Call one if you have need. You may send the bill along to my club. Please tell my dear brother that I wish to see him immediately that he is able."

"Thank you once again for all the help, Mr. Holmes."

His look changed to one of incredulity before he stepped out and slammed the door after him. Kit winced at the sharp sound. She looked around the small space, at a loss for what to do.

"Cheer up," the voice in the other room wobbled. "That could have gone _much_ worse."

* * *

Holmes tossed in his delirium, sweat running down either side of his forehead to soak his pillow. Kit returned with a cold compress and placed it across his eyes. The fever had been burning him up for two solid days now, never getting high enough to be truly dangerous, but never leaving him either.

To his credit, Mycroft had sent a boy over the next day with a few fresh changes of clothes for his brother, clean night-shirts, his toiletries, and an enormous bundle of newspapers.

Kit instructed that everything be deposited in the sitting room. The young delivery boy looked around with curiosity, but left quickly after accepting the few coins Kit dropped into his outstretched hand. A basket of provisions also arrived, and she was able to make broth for her new charge, as well as some restorative sandwiches for herself.

After re-locating one of the sitting room chairs to Holmes' bedside, she had taken up residence there, and not left for the last two days, alternately bathing his face and hands with cold water and assisting him to take a few swallows of broth every few hours. During the day very little happened to interrupt her vigil, giving her ample time to consider the events of the last little while. She understood that she had come to care very much for her new friend, but to what extent still eluded her. She sat quietly, practicing with her fingers on the strings of his violin, and considered her past, her current situation, and her very unstable future.

Kit's father had been a bank clerk before his death. Her mother was a school teacher, before marriage and an only child. She had also passed away some years ago, leaving Kit to fend for herself. The family had been poorish, but not degradingly so. The thought that one day she would be unable to support herself had never occurred to her. She supposed that she could go into service. The prospect was not appealing. She knew she was ill-suited to it, but the reality of many of her other options were unthinkable.

She would regain _some_ dexterity, surely.

There was nothing in Kit's make up that would let her give up without some kind of fight. It was a trait she shared with her new friend.

It was surprising how foreign the thought of life after Sherlock had become. Once her case was over she must prepare herself for reality. She had never been a dreamer about such matters.

Still, she regretted the knowledge that things would soon return to something distinctly less adventurous. This, she told herself, was obviously the foundation of her deep concern about him. What other reason could there be to watch him so closely? To be so invested in the recovery of a man that up until several days ago had been a complete stranger to her?

* * *

The nights were the worst for him it seemed, he kicked and thrashed at the bedclothes, shouted things she did not understand, lashed out suddenly. At times it seemed that he was being attacked by dogs, at other times as though he was on a ship, the waves crashing over his head.

Kit stayed close. She had called in the doctor on the first day, but he had simply confirmed that Holmes was in the grip of a fever, and that if it rose past a certain point, to call him back. He left powders to be dissolved and drunk, tinctures to be dropped into water and rubbed on the forehead. Kit followed his advice religiously, but nothing seemed to change Holmes' state, he got no worse, nor became more comfortable. On the evening of the third day, very much against her will, she drifted off to sleep.

 _As always in her dreams of late, she was walking down a long dark street, glancing behind her every few moments, sure that there was someone there. She never saw anyone though, and her walk continued on interminably, the fear in her stomach rising with each step. She tried running up the steps of the nearest house, tried the door, knocked loudly, but no one answered. All the lights were out._

 _She hurried to the next house, then the next, then the next. All the doors were barred to her, the locks clacked loudly as she mounted the stairs._

 _Behind her the great black shape of a man was gaining on her, faceless, handless, only a low-pulled hat and the glint of something metal where his hands should be. The breath huffed out of his mouth into the cold air in great stinking clouds. She ran up the next flight of stairs, pounding on the door until her hand split and bled. She felt he man getting closer, heard the scuff of his first foot hitting the stairs below her. The door of the house swung open, and a man stood in the entrance._

 _"_ _Miss Rushford? I believe you are dreaming."_

 _She turned sharply to find Holmes standing before her, one hand still resting on the knob. "Miss Rushford?" He asked again, taking her by the forearm and pulling her inside. "You must wake up, you're having a nightmare." She allowed herself to be led into the safety of his presence, and the door closed behind her._

 _Kit relaxed against Holmes' chest, waiting for his arm to wrap around her. Instead she felt a shove, and she cracked her head against the door as she fell against it. Holmes loomed above her, his face dark, bristling with hair on his upper lip. She heard the click of a pocket knife opening somewhere down and to the right of her, and his hand came up, pushing her back by the throat. "It will only hurt for a moment," he promised. Something slammed against the door behind her, right next to her ear, and she jumped and screamed, clawing at Holmes' face._

Kit sat bolt upright, knocking Holmes' hands away from her face. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Holmes caught her wrist, squeezing, shaking gently, and his familiar baritone finally managed to break into her thoughts.

"Kit? It's all right. You were having a nightmare. You're safe now."

She tried to focus on him, propped up on his elbow, face in the dim light stamped with worry. She had only left a single candle burning on the night stand, and it was low and guttering by now.

She felt weak and embarrassed. More so because she could feel tears stinging behind her eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat, pushing the sick feelings away.

"Mr. Holmes," she said. "You are awake."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Perceptive as ever I see, Miss Rushford." He watched her with his bird-gray eyes, half hidden behind hooded lids. The delirium had obviously passed. She could see that he was exhausted, but lucid. Their shared vulnerability lent a sense of calm and peace to the room - a sense of comradery.

She could see that he was trembling. "You should rest," she told him.

His smile widened as he took in the chair by his bedside, the violin leaned up against it, as well as the empty water glasses and bowls.

"Have you gotten any sleep lately?" He asked.

She cleared her throat, the lump returning at the mention of sleep. "I've been…"

The smile dropped from his face.

"I've been having difficulty sleeping," she continued, trying to smile. _Oh hell,_ she realized she was about to cry again.

He flipped her hand over so that he could stare down at her palm. "Have you noticed any improvement?"

"Yes, a little." The wobble would not leave her voice. She cleared her throat again. His hand was overwarm, and the feeling of him holding on to her was more than she felt able to deal with right now.

"Excuse me," she pulled her hand away. "I think I may be slightly over tired."

"Of course. I'm sorry. I simply meant that if there was anything I could do to comfort you, or help…"

She moved before he finished his sentence. Her arms wrapped around him, her face buried in his damp shoulder. The force of it knocked him back, and he grabbed onto her to stay upright on his elbow. "Ah, Miss Rushford…" he stammered. "I meant verbally."

"Sherlock," she sniffed, "either move over and give me some room, or risk being dragged onto the floor."

His eyebrows rocketed up. They were beyond dangerous territory now. Polite society would be scandalized by such actions, innocent or otherwise. Not that he was a part of polite society… yet. But, if he was not careful that door would be closed to him irrevocably. And what of Kit? A woman's reputation was even more fragile than a man's. _When had propriety become so important to him_ , he wondered. _As long as no one found out_ , he told himself, both his and Kit's reputations would suffer no harm. And that was his main concern, of course. Not the fact that her slim body was heating him all the way through, or that her good hand buried in the hair at the back of his head felt like something that had been missing from there until now.

Polite society obviously did not know how calming it was to hold someone this way, he reasoned, to feel their strength seeping into one, and to be able to transmute one's own strength wordlessly back.

Decision made, he shifted over enough that she could stretch out on the bed beside him, arms still around his neck. He rubbed his hand along her lower back, remembering that he had seen this done somewhere before. Perhaps he could sooth her with conversation?

"Are my newspapers here?"

"Oh, Lord," she groaned. "Please, not more reading." She did not take her face away from his neck. "I mean, they are in the parlour, but, possibly you should wait until you are a little stronger before you attempt to go through them?"

"Perhaps we could go through them together?"

She raised her head from his shoulder, swiping tears away from her cheeks. "Sherlock, you are doing this wrong."

"In what way?"

"Trust me, this whole situation will improve drastically if you stop talking."

"But, I find work tremendously distracting. Perhaps it would be the same for you? My body functions better when there is a task."

"Perhaps the task tonight could be us both focusing on our recovery from serious injury."

He looked as if he was getting ready to argue, but Kit stopped him, placing one finger across his lips. "The papers will be there tomorrow," she said. "You have laid here for almost three days without them. A few more hours will do you no harm."

He must be well and truly done in, he realized, because instead of arguing, he settled back down on his pillow, gazing up at the ceiling, keeping his arms hooked loosely around her.

"So what method would _you_ suggest will accomplish this aim the most expediently?"

But Kit was already sleeping peacefully beside him.


	8. Bludgers

_"Holmes," I cried, "how could you?!"_

 _"Oh, Watson, do shut up."_

 _I rose from my chair, well and truly angry now, and crossed to where the decanter of brandy sat on the table. I sloshed some into a nearby glass and drank it off quickly._

 _"Such things are just not done by the higher classes," I informed him, regretting now that I had not sipped instead._

 _Holmes looked down that aquiline nose at me with scorn. "Listen to yourself man, such things are abundantly done by the higher classes. A class, I might add, that neither you nor I belong to! Why can't I form an attachment to a respectable woman of my own social standing? I may come from impoverished gentry, but my bloodline springs from artists, not titled aristocracy. I work for my salary, as you do."_

 _He steepled his fingers in front of his face and stared into the fire for a moment._

 _I knew Holmes better than to think he was done, so I poured myself another brandy and a second one for him._

 _"You know as well as I do that society doesn't give a toss about what people actually do," he continued on with some vehemence. "Only what they hear people have done. Then they moralize. Extra marital affairs are treated like sport for the gentry, while if the maids dare kiss below stairs their reputations are sullied forever."_

 _He accepted the glass I handed him and nodded his thanks. He sipped it thoughtfully._

 _"This is why I prefer to retain my bohemian ways. I may be frowned on, but at least I'm not wracked with misplaced guilt."_

 _"All right, old chap, I think you've made yourself clear. You must know I'm thinking of the girl as well." I retook my place across from him._

 _He nodded again. "It was a confusing time. We were in a kind of social limbo, both removed from our homes. No one in the neighborhood had reason to think us anything other than a normal boring couple. In fact, I don't think we ever even saw anyone else from the neighbourhood. It was mostly industrial."_

 _He raised an eyebrow at me again. "Besides, I'm sorry, but if you were going to act scandalized, then you should have started much earlier this evening. A woman cannot enter a bachelor's house unattended, let alone his bedroom without serious repercussions - if anyone were to find out-" He shot down my objection before I had time to voice it. "Whether we thoroughly debauched each other or not has nothing to do with it."_

 _I choked on my drink._

 _"You see, Watson - that boat had already sailed. You'll just have to overcome your squeamishness. Look. Here I am. No harm done. Miss Rushford was not a fallen woman. Simply a better rested one."_

 _He smiled devilishly at me._

 _"So, nothing happened then?"_

 _His smile became enigmatic. I could swear I saw a flash of something that might be regret cross his face. "Unless you count the loss of blood flow to my arm for over an hour as a significant event - then no. However, my hands tingled for hours after."_

 _I sat back in my chair, and I finally allowed myself to smile back at him. It was no good reproaching him. He was as he was; terribly eccentric, and as I was starting to realize, terribly fragile._

 _"All right, Holmes, I am won over. Tell me how you solved the mystery. I can't say that I'm exactly comfortable with your methods, but I am glad that you and Miss Rushford finally admitted your feelings for one another."_

 _The smile slid from his face. "What does that mean?"_

 _"Well, it means that you may not have known each other, but you did sleep together. It must have cleared the air somewhat. I'm please for you. It sounds as if you two were well matched. It's not just any woman who can put up with you and your antics. And I've never heard of you trying to comfort anyone. Ever."_

 _"Assumptions, Watson. Assumptions. The next morning, I continued on in my usual, reasonable way."_

 _"Emotionally austere, you mean?"_

 _"Hmmm. And this 'well matched' person you speak of proved the perfect example of why women and men cannot be placed on the same intellectual level. She became instantly hostile to my superior reasoning..."_

 _"Oh, no. Holmes, you didn't."_

 _"Didn't what?"_

 _"You didn't pretend nothing had happened, did you?"_

 _"Nothing of the kind. I made sure my morning address was perceptibly warmer."_

 _"Oh, God." My heart sank into my stomach. "You did."_

* * *

Kit awoke to a strange noise. She was warm and comfortable in bed. It took her a moment to regain her sense of the surroundings. This bed felt different from the one she was accustomed to occupying, and there was a faint scent surrounding her. Not an unpleasant one. It was somehow familiar.

Why could she smell Sherlock Holmes on her pillow? She started up suddenly, memories of the night before crashing in on her. Her head spun with the quick movement, and she put her hand out to steady herself on the bed. There was no one there. Looking around, she spotted her chair still pulled up by the side of the bed, but Sherlock was gone, only a cold indent in the mattress to show where he had been.

She checked herself over quickly, but nothing seemed out of place. She was still entirely dressed, all the way down to her boots, and she was lying on top of the coverlet. There was an afghan spread over her now, which she recognized as the one that had been draped over the back of her chair last night.

The sound she heard was music. In fact, it was Der Erlkonig, the Shubert rendition for solo violin.

Kit held her breath for a moment, listening to the frantic drive of the piece. It swirled around in her head, making her giddy, and she wanted to see the player. She knew of course that it must be Holmes, but she had never seen him play, and up until now, had no idea his level of skill.

She crept out of bed and down the hall, pausing just outside the door to the sitting room.

High jarring notes galloped through the air, slurring together and then crystalizing. She couldn't help but smile to herself. His G was sharp.

He stopped suddenly and started over from the beginning. This time his tempo was inconsistent, he failed to pluck and bow at the same time. He was having trouble with the child's high range in the piece. She wished she could help him, explain that he was probably over intellectualizing it, and that if he slowed down a little he could learn to push the tempo later. He was indeed a very talented amateur, as he had told her. More than amateur, in fact.

The music stopped suddenly and she heard a prolonged silence, followed by a frustrated sigh. Next was Bach's Sonata 3 Largo, and the much slower pace was soothing, if unexpected.

She put her head around the corner and nearly gasped. The room looked as if it was blanketed in fresh snow. Newspapers were tossed haphazardly all over the room, coating the armchair and couch, the floor, there was even one hanging from a picture frame on the far wall.

Holmes himself stood in front of the small window, facing out into the street. He was dressed in pants and a shirt, his waistcoat and frock coat missing. His feet were still bare. With the light coming from behind him, Kit could see the outline of his rail-thin upper body through his shirt. He bent back and forth at the waist as he played, his body almost like a bow itself.

She fought the urge to cross the room and wrap her arms around him. Surely that was allowed now? Something held her back though. Perhaps that he continued to surprise her with his changeable nature. There was no way to be sure that the Holmes of last night had anything to do with this morning-light Holmes.

A moment later he broke off in frustration, dragging the bow across the strings with an unforgiving screech. What followed was a series of chords, each higher and more piercing than the last. Finally he gave up and tossed the violin through the air, where it landed with a thump on the couch.

Kit did gasp then. Who on earth threw a violin like that? Either money or madness _must_ run in his family somewhere.

Holmes turned from the window, bow still in his hand. "Ah. Miss Rushford."

"Der Erlkoning? I am impressed, Mr. Holmes."

"I prefer it played on piano." He said, tossing the bow onto the couch with the violin.

She felt her face flush at the slight. "Still, I commend you on your courage."

"You think I am not afraid to sound ridiculous." His tone was dark.

"I think you are not afraid to fail. Many would not even try. Perhaps I could help you with your fingering?" Her flush increased, and she hoped desperately he would not comment on the horrid double meaning her words carried. She certainly hadn't meant _that_.

His face slid into a neutral expression and froze there. "No thank you." He turned to look back out the window. The silence stretched out. Kit glanced around the messy room.

"What are you doing, Mr. Holmes? It is not yet eight in the morning." Did she still have to call him Mr. Holmes after last night? She had assumed that eventually they would find a more comfortable middle ground between the more formal public behavior required of them, and their growing private friendship. That did not seem to be the case though, as he still didn't turn around. Perhaps he felt that they didn't have to discuss the previous night at all…

"I was following your suggestion," he interrupted the flow of her thoughts. "I did not begin work this morning until well after five. I have been going through my files, and you will be happy to know that I have solved your case." He glanced at the small clock on the sitting room shelf. "One hour and forty three minutes ago."

She gaped at him. "What?"

He grabbed one of the papers from the floor and strode across the room with it, thrusting it enthusiastically into her face. "The Times, evening edition, eleven days ago."

She took the paper, more to defend herself from the flapping pages than out of understanding. On closer inspection she could see strain around Holmes' mouth and eyes. He was still pale. Sweat stood out on his forehead. She placed her hand on his cheek, noting how hot he was. He jerked his head away from her, snarling.

"Miss Rushford, you must desist your coddling."

"Coddling? You've been insensible for three days. Now you're up running around like a madman in your bare feet. You have a slight fever Mr. Holmes, you need rest. Have you eaten?"

He waved her off. "Exactly, womanish coddling. I will not allow you to influence my commitment you my work, Miss Rushford. _Read the paper_."

She glanced down at the sheets in her hands, hurt by his comments, and bewildered as to what it was exactly she had done wrong. His calm had all disappeared, replaced by this frenetic wall, pushing her away. She had thought…well, never mind what she had thought. She was obviously wrong. She looked at the paper, raising it closer to her, but the print was so small, the page covered with it, and her eyes swimming for some reason. Her throat felt tight. She dropped the papers and sat in the nearest chair.

"Are you alright?" he asked briskly.

"I am. But I would prefer it if you simply tell me what it is I am looking for. I'm afraid I'm having a small problem reading this morning." She refused to look at him. He scooped up the paper and pointed out an article in the center column, around the middle of the page.

" _A follow up article stating that Lady Francis Atherby's emerald and diamond drop earrings have still not been located. This stunning pair of 9.9 carat pear-shaped earrings have been in the lady's family for three generations_. They were rumored to have been a royal gift to her Grandmother in recompense for her indispensable and conscientious behavior at court," he added.

"She had a carte blanche, you mean?"

"Or kept quiet about others who did. The earrings are extremely valuable, and still missing it seems. There is a large reward for anyone who steps forward with any information."

"And what does this have to do with me?"

"Tilby was a page, was he not? Do you remember which household he was with?"

"I don't remember. Lucy did mention it. They were frightfully important."

"I believe that on this matter, I would be willing to take a bet." Holmes lifted the paper significantly.

"You think he took the Atherby's jewelry? It's ridiculous. How did he ever think he would get away with it?"

"Did you notice planning and introspection being high on the list of Tilby's attributes? I decidedly did not. He has gambling debts that have come due. I think desperation was the only thing he was feeling when he set himself to his task.

"He would have hidden the earrings after taking them, and I can think of no better place than at his sister's work. That way he could continue at his job without fear of discovery until he was able to have them changed and pay back the debts he owed."

Holmes paused to look at her, as if reassuring himself that she was keeping up with him.

"I assume he had plans for the extra money, otherwise he was genuinely ignorant of the worth of the pieces he stole." He continued, apparently satisfied with her feigned look of interest. "They are small - he may not have understood what he was taking. He told The Tash that he had the means to pay him back, and by doing so, sealed his own fate. There was an uproar about the theft, I remember it. Harry might be odious, but he's not stupid, he would have put it together quickly."

"So where do I fit in, then? Other than the fact that I work at the same place as Lucy, and I know Davey, I have nothing to do with it." Kit asked.

"Really, Miss Rushford. I would have thought it would have become evident to you by now."

He scooped up the pile of papers and plunked himself down on the couch across from her, drawing his legs up under him and searching about for his pipe.

"What does that mean?" She kept her voice level, stilling her rising anger with him. It seemed that not only were they going to ignore the events of the previous evening, but now they were going to ignore common civilities as well.

"Why assault you and hurt your hands?"

"I thought we had established that was something Davey was responsible for."

"True, but incomplete." He leaned forward, jabbing a finger at her. "You have not carried your deduction all the way through to the end. Tilby is spineless and perverse, but not mad. There must have been some reason to send men after you in the first place. The hands, as we have ascertained, were _extra_."

Kit shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She didn't like where this was going, and she was starting to feel uncomfortable and claustrophobic.

"There was something else about your person that they were interested in. Can you think of anything else that was destroyed?"

"…My violin?"

"Exactly. I can think of worse places to hide small stones than inside a resonance box. Held fast with paste or sticking plaster. _That_ is why the violin and you were deposited so disrespectfully outside the theatre door. As a message to Tilby that goods were not received."

"But…" Kit was still reeling at how he had come up with all of this, after seeing and hearing the same things she had. "Why would Davey tell them I had it if I didn't?"

"An honest mistake, just as he said in the tunnels. I think in the orchestra pit, worried that someone might come in, it's feasible that he put the earrings into the violin of the wrong person. Perhaps the person who sits next to you?"

"Lucy?" Kit's heart beat faster. If that was the case, then her friend was in danger. "We need to tell her."

"I sent off a telegram over an hour ago to warn her. However, I fear I was not in time."

"What do you mean?"

Holmes picked up the morning edition, one that he had managed to get his hands on during his brief trip to the telegram office, and held it up for her to see. The story was on the second page, close to the bottom. An opera house musician hardly warranted the front page, after all.

"I'm afraid she was found in Drury Lane last night. Her violin was missing. She's alive, but it seems my illness caused us enough of a delay that Harry was able to locate and relieve Lucy of the earrings. I don't believe she will be leaving the hospital any time soon."

"Oh, my God."

"I know. My failure is inexcusable. I should have realized this would happen days ago."

"How can you say that?"

He frowned at her, withdrawing the paper slightly. "What do you mean?"

"How can you talk about her _like that_? As if she was some sort of finale to a story you are telling?"

"I fail to see your point…"

"She's my friend! She reached out to you on my behalf, and all you have done is deprive her of the company of a brother-"

"-A man who incited a group of bludgers to reduce you to this pitiable state." Holmes caught himself too late.

"Pitiable? Is that what you think of me?"

"I have no wish to waste time discussing this right now, Miss Rushford."

"That's hardly friendly, Mr. Holmes."

"We are not friends, Miss Rushford."

She let that statement settle between them for a moment. She was angry enough to storm out, but somehow that option did not appeal. Even though she knew she was embarking on an ultimately destructive path, she could not resist the opportunity to know. How far could she push Sherlock Holmes?

"Then what, Mr. Holmes?"

"You are my client."

"And this is how you conduct yourself with all your clients?"

He steepled his fingers in front of his face and closed his eyes.

"I seek clarification," she continued. "One minute you're concerned enough about my safety to attack a mere _boy_ on the street after chasing him over hell's half acre, and the next your telling me that you don't want my _justifiable_ worry for you to impair your ability to focus on your job. What job? Entangling yourself in the troubles of others? To what end? To sneer at them afterwards? What good are you to me? Or for that matter anyone else unlucky enough to come in contact with you?

I ask you for help, you rudely deny me, without any explanation, only to show up far too late, run roughshod all over my life, remove me from my home, order me around like you have some kind of right to do so, and then blithely tell me that I'm getting in your way."

Holmes reopened his eyes. His stare was cold and piercing. This is why woman were a liability. _Never again_ , he told himself. They made one react in the most obscene ways. Henceforth intimacy was to be avoided at all cost. He should be outraged right now. He should stand up, make some imperious statement, and stalk from the room. Unfortunately, cast his mind around as he might, he could think of nothing to say. His guts roiled with the hateful knowledge that she was right. He had done all those things.

And now, sitting here, instead of some biting comment or coolly constructed retort, he was instead completely occupied by the realization that he found her the most attractive woman of his acquaintance. Her anger had brought a high colour to her cheeks, and her blue eyes flashed at him. _Only three to five percent of all people with dark hair had such light eyes_.

He found her a rarity in so many ways. Her stubbornness, her inability to comply with even the simplest request, her courage, her unswerving loyalty, all of it frustrated him endlessly.

No doubt it was frustration he had to thank for his current state. He felt lightheaded and twitchy. His breathing was ragged. Three days without tobacco will do that to a man. He moved to search his pockets again for his pipe, before he realized that he had left his waistcoat in the other room. In fact, now that he considered it, he really was in a shocking state of undress.

"I'm waiting, Mr. Holmes." Her voice yanked him back to the present.

"I…I have no interest in discussing this further with you, Miss Rushford." He realized he was still holding that morning's paper. He cleared his throat and opened it as calmly as he could.

Funny. Today's news seemed to be written in gibberish.

"And that's another thing! Why this morning am I Miss Rushford, when last night I was Kit."

 _Oh, God_. He swallowed. Not that. He did not want to talk about _that_. He knew he had been unforgivably weak. If only they could forget about the previous night, this might be brought back on track.

"I don't even know what to call you," she continued. "I feel as if I know you too well to call you 'Mr. Holmes', and not well enough to call you 'Sherlock'. You can't act proprietary about me one minute, and then dismissive the next."

"I do not act proprietary."

"I beg to differ."

He considered. If ritualistic suicide were an option, perhaps….but no. His Phurba was still back in his rooms on Montague Street. He raised The Times to hide his face, and said instead: "Perhaps you could drop the Mister, and simply call me Holmes."

The paper was jerked from his grasp. Kit balled it up against her leg and tossed it over her shoulder to land with a bounce on the carpeted floor.

"I would prefer it if you looked at me during this conversation." Her tone was deceptively light. "I am merely asking you to explain your discomfort, _Mr. Holmes_."

"What you interpret as discomfort, _Miss Rushford,_ is in fact impatience."

"It doesn't look like impatience to me, Sherlock. It looks like something far simpler than that."

Holmes scanned the floor for another paper to pick up. Nothing came to hand. Why did she have to make this so damn difficult for him? Of course he wanted to apologize. He wished he knew what to say. He felt like there must be some way to stop this, to avert the inevitable disaster that must be the logical end to this. But Sherlock Holmes did not blurt things out. Nor would he begin now. He knew that power was withheld from him. He could never ease her mind the way he wished he could. Of _course_ he was proprietary and frantic to preserve her safety. Isn't that what normal men become when they found something they treasured? Was he really so different?

She was normally so sharp. Why couldn't she see past what he was saying to grasp the significance of what he meant?

He crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm sure your deductive reasoning is startlingly acute, Miss Rushford, but please, try not to strain yourself." He fixed his eyes on a single spot on the floor, determined to whether the rest of this conversation in silence. Or at least in monosyllables.

She circled around to the back of his chair. He tightened his jaw and kept his eyes trained on the carpet. He felt the warmth of her body at this new and disturbing proximity, even through the fabric of her dress, and could remember the feel of her hair on his cheek from the night before. His throat dried.

"You seem tense, Mr. Holmes."

"Nonsense."

She ran the tip of her forefinger in the barest whisper of a touch down from behind his right ear to the top of his collar. He felt the line burn into his skin.

Holmes was on his feet before he knew he was moving. He turned as he did, and the two of them stood facing each other.

The room was still between them. The light streaming in the window had turned from pale grey to the colour of yolk. Until a second ago the street outside had reverberated with baker's calls from shop to shop, the cries of paper sellers and costermongers: all silent now. Inside even the faded floral wallpaper seemed to disappear, leaving nothing but empty space.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but that's not impatience," Kit continued to hold his stare defiantly. "That's arousal. Most people find it quite a pleasant feeling, although since I have noticed that you do scorn almost everything other men find pleasurable, I supposed that caring about someone would be considered the worst thing that could ever happen to you, correct?"

He stood frozen.

They were so close.

If she held out her hand to him he could take it. He could squeeze her fingers in his and tell her everything he needed to tell her, but didn't know how.

She left the room quietly. He could hear her moving around in her own room. A few moments later she came back down the hall and stopped at the main door.

"I'm going to see Lucy," she told him. Her voice was calm and even now, with no hint of reproach. "I can only guess that she would be relieved to see a friendly face." She stood waiting with her hand on the knob.

Holmes swallowed, but could not turn to look at her.

"I realized that I sounded ungrateful just now," she continued. "I'm very much in your debt for the help you've given me. Especially with my hands. I understand that it wasn't your fault I was hurt, and that you were not obligated to ask Mycroft for assistance. Thank you."

She opened the door. "Don't forget he wants to see you when you are able."

The door closed behind her.

Sherlock had still not moved.


	9. The Ocean Hath Fish

Sherlock did not move for a full half hour after Kit left. He used the time to watch the shadows on the walls change shapes and elongate, listen to the babble of humanity drifting up to his third story window, and consider that when playing Der Elrkonig for him, Miss Rushford's G had been anything but sharp.

When his heart had finally stopped hammering and he had decided on a course of action, his footsteps were sure. He needed help. He needed advise. And there was only one place he could go for it.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes perched comfortably on the top rung of his custom-made step ladder, gazing out into the street from his favorite window. As a founding member of the Diogenes club, he was one of the special few with control over room assignments. This forward facing library with a full view of the busy street outside had been his since the furnishing was complete.

He had the window open slightly, letting in the cool morning breeze and the noises of bustling people as they made their way up and down the pavement.

His eyes focused on one particular woman pushing a pram past his window, the heels of her boots clicking. He noted from the slightly different sound each heel made that one had been snapped off and re-glued. Mycroft smiled. He found thrifty women charming.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock's voice did not startle him. He had caught the sound of his brother's foot coming up the carpeted stair. It was something _in_ his voice that made him turn and give the younger man a sharp look up and down. It took him almost no time to ascertain the situation. Still, out of politeness, he said "Good afternoon, Sherlock. To what do I owe the delight of your company?"

"I am here at your request, brother."

Sherlock had stopped just inside the door, and was contemplating the long walk across the lushly furnished room with dread. He looked wretched. His face was ashen. His fingers twitched at his sides. Despite the fact that he seemed to have made an attempt, his hair was still askew, his waistcoat buttoned improperly.

The hard lines around Mycroft's eyes softened. "No, no." He kept his tone gentle. "Let's ignore that request for now. I think instead that you are here for a different reason. I think instead you may need my help."

"I do."

Mycroft knew how dearly that admission must cost Sherlock. He gestured to the second ladder he had placed at the other side of the window, opposite him. One never knew when one would want to see something from a different angle. "Sit down, dear boy," he said.

Sherlock climbed to the top rung and seated himself facing his brother, his long thin frame in opposition to the corpulent one across from him.

Mycroft ran his fingers through his steel grey hair and then placed his hands on his knees, giving Sherlock his full attention. "Tell me."

"It's difficult."

"It's not difficult," Mycroft corrected him with a smile. "You and Miss Rushford have quarreled. I think I can safely assume that the quarrel was your fault?"

"It was."

"Over an issue of intimacy?"

"Yes."

"Hmmmm." Mycroft tapped a pinch of snuff onto the web of his thumb and inhaled it with gusto. Sherlock fished his cigarette case out of an inside pocket and offered him one. Mycroft shook his head, watching closely as Sherlock tapped the end of his own on the top of the case and lit it with a match. Once extinguished the match was tossed out the window onto the pavement.

Mycroft could not keep himself from chuckling, but there was no ill-feeling to it. "We are not by nature a very outwardly kind family, are we, Sherlock?"

"Indeed."

"Still, we have our good points. I have noticed that we are, for the most part, very sharp dressers."

Sherlock smiled and crossed his legs, a hazardous maneuver balanced as he was. Still, the precarious position seemed to suit him. He blew a cloud of smoke out the window. "What shall I do?"

Mycroft considered for a moment. "You have solved her case?"

"I have"

"And what are your concerns?"

"As always, I worry about jumping to conclusions. I'm positive Harry has the stolen items, but I fear I must go to the theatre anyway, to ensure that I have not been misled. A quick check of the three other violins in the string section should be enough. After I am positive, then I will go to seek out The Tash and regain the stolen merchandise so that I can…"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He seemed annoyed at being interrupted.

"I meant your concerns about Miss Rushford. That is why you're here, is it not?"

"Ah, yes."

"Well? Tell me. She certainly does not strike me as the worst fate that could ever befall a man."

"You only say that because you like her."

Mycroft laughed. "That's true.I do like her very much. She is a singular woman. That is not the point, though. The point is that _you_ love her. Why are you so distraught about it?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with his brother's choice of words. He scrutinized the smoldering end of his cigarette, preferring that to Mycroft's knowing look.

"I fear that the life I have imagined for myself does not include a helpmate."

"Hmmmm."

"I fear for her safety," he continued. "If my career takes off it will be a dangerous one for anyone linked with me on a personal level."

"Very well."

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "I fear for my sanity. The woman is incorrigible."

"But you _do_ want her?"

"Yes." Sherlock did meet his brother's eye then. "In every way." His look was both fierce and unsure. "I am a man, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded. He looked back out the window drawing in deep breaths of the deliciously crisp air. "And you view this as a sign of weakness?"

"You know I have never been fond of personal relationships. They have a tendency to lead one into illogical thought patterns, and make one act in the strangest way. I am ill-suited to them."

"Then you are better rid of her."

Sherlock flinched. Mycroft's smile widened. He waged a finger at him. "Ah. So there's the crux. You've decided that the worst possible thing for you on a personal and professional level is to continue a relationship with Kit Rushford."

"Yes."

"But you are unable to give her up."

"Utterly."

"Hmmmm." Mycroft looked out the window again. "I love this window. I see such folly from it." He took another pinch of snuff and wiggled himself into a more comfortable position on his perch. His waistcoat buttons strained at the effort.

"My concerns are not unfounded," Sherlock pressed him.

"No indeed. I see your problem. Especially since if you wish to continue with her you are going to have to make your feelings known. There are some things that society demands that even you cannot get around, Sherlock."

The younger man unfolded himself and slid impatiently from the ladder. He paced the room to the door and back. "Declarations?"

"Courtship. Miss Rushford deserves to be courted, brother, not hidden away in some room somewhere like a dirty secret. This is something you must remember: As painful as this may be to you, _she_ has done nothing wrong. She has cared for you, put up with you, hazarded discomfort and ridicule for you. You must not make this her fault. She has laid no traps for you. You need only meet her once to see that she is not the type for that. Is your feeling of affection for her so unpleasant to you?"

Sherlock paused in his pacing, halfway back to the door and turned and threw a wild look at his brother. "Of course it's not unpleasant! It's overpowering, that is the problem! All my reading and study has done nothing to prepare me for it."

"That's because you need to extend your reading beyond _The Martyrdom of Man_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock slid his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced around at the leather bound tomes on the walls surrounding him. "How about Gibbon? 'We improve ourselves by victories over ourselves. There must be contest, and we must win'."

"Very good," Mycroft cheered, "but remember, that is the same man who wrote 'I understand by this passion the union of desire, friendship, and tenderness, which is inflamed by a single female, which prefers her to the rest of her sex, and which seeks her possession as the supreme or sole happiness of our being'."

Sherlock lit another cigarette and blew the smoke with some frustration at his brother. "Is that what you really think?"

"Well, I have never met such a woman, but, then again, one cannot tell the future."

Sherlock snorted, drawing mightily on his cigarette before crushing it out in the ashtray on the polished mahogany reading table, not even half-way finished.

"I think you will meet other women," Mycroft cut in on him. "I think it is highly likely you will meet one who will appeal more to your desire for intellectual supremacy. You may meet one who sparks a greater need for competition in you, or whom you find more sexually alluring. Perhaps one who appeals more to your sense of justice, or excitement, or danger. What you will not find is one who appeals more to your humanity. So - she makes you uncomfortable. Good. You have reason to be. You have much to live up to with her."

A group of loud children ran by on the street outside, and Mycroft's eyes trailed after them. An old man followed after, tottering on numb legs. A matronly flower seller leaned her hip against a set of stone steps leading into the building opposite and made eyes at any eligible man who wandered by. Mycroft smiled, then pulled his attention back inside.

"I know you have some very good reasons to mistrust women, dear boy," he said finally, "but don't you think you owe it to Miss Rushford to tell her why? I believe she is worth the effort, and you yourself may find it liberating."

Sherlock crossed to the base of Mycroft's ladder and placed his hand on one of the rungs, tipping his face up to the man above. It was an expression Mycroft remembered well from their childhood. The very private Sherlock that few ever saw.

"Even if I do tell her, the rest remains a mystery to me, Mycroft. How does one conduct a courtship with someone, admit them into your confidence, and yet not put them in a position of danger from one's enemies? Not overcommit to something I'm not even sure I'm ready for yet?"

"Sherlock, as a boy you were able to tell which path through the woods Father took on the way home by the mud flecks on his boots. I'm sure you'll be able to solve this."

* * *

Mycroft sat at his usual table in the dining room, napkin spread on his lap. To his great joy, there was an 'r' in the month, and the Diogenes club had oysters that were second to none.

Sherlock had been gone for less than half an hour when the Steward stuck his head into the dining room and zeroed in on Mycroft's table.

Mycroft halted with his fork half-way to his mouth, oyster hanging precariously off. The elder Holmes abhorred slurping. He set his fork down gently in the center of his plate and gave his lips a dainty wipe.

"All right, Saunders. Who is it now?"

"A woman, sir."

"An attractive one with an arm sling?"

"Yes, sir. Waiting outside on the front steps. I told her that you might not be willing to see here, as it is lunch time."

"On the contrary. The young lady is expected, - although," Mycroft snuck a look at his gold-plated pocket watch and raised his brushy grey brows in admiration. "She is a full ten minutes earlier than I thought she would be. I love a woman who keeps you guessing. Please tell her I will be with her at once."

The Steward gave him a surprised look, but hurried back out into the hall, no doubt anxious to get another look at the woman who could make Mycroft Holmes interrupt his mid-day repast.

Holmes heaved himself up from the table and followed him out into the hall.

* * *

The backstage of the Royal Olympic sparkled with brass polish and gaslight. The familiar smells of oil paint and talc drifted through the air. Holmes threaded his way through stage right wing on his way back towards the performer's exit.

He nodded to a familiar stagehand on his way through, and the man raised a lazy hand at him, not bothering to straighten up from where he leaned on the fly rail.

"Are you here to see Carlyle, then?"

Holmes stopped. "No. Should I be?"

"He was looking for you the other day, sure."

Holmes scowled. What could Jeffy Carlyle want with him? There was no show this afternoon. He had made sure of that the moment he had stepped in.

As he had suspected, none of the other three violinists had objected to him giving the resonance boxes of their instruments a quick check. Especially after he had assured them that that their safety could be at stake.

News of Lucy's misfortune had sent a stir through the orchestra. As the second of their musicians to suffer the same fate, they were all eager to do anything they could to avoid the tormenter of the string section. Holmes did tell them they were no longer in danger, but they seemed too hysterical to listen to him. Plain, normal, upstanding girls all of them.

"Holmes!" The voice jerked him out of his reverie. He swung around to find Jeffy Carlyle barreling down on him from the props area at stage left. "Where in heaven's name have you been?!"

"Been?"

"You've missed three shows, man. What happened to you?" Carlyle stopped only a few inches from the taller detective, fists pressed into his hips. A brief smile pulled at the corner of Holmes' mouth when he realized it looked like the aging props master was going to take him over his knee. "Ah, Mr. Carlyle. I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I was very ill."

"And you couldn't get me a message? Dear God man, we almost had a disaster here the first night you didn't show up. I'm supposed to be off doing another show, not coming in to cover the man who's supposed to be covering me!"

"I know, and you have my sincerest apologies, but I'm afraid I must withdraw. Health reasons."

Jeffy gaped at him. "Health reasons? Just like that? Here one day, gone the next? It leaves me in quite a bind, I hope you know."

Holmes did know. He felt a twinge for the little man. It seemed there were no parts of this case that he had not bungled. "I know Mr. Carlyle. I only hope I can find a way to make it up to you and your mistress, Mrs. Laura Childers of Woking. I do hear that Brighton is better in the spring, if that's any consolation."

Carlyle took a step back from him, eyes wide, and then turned on his heel and stormed away, shouting as he went. "They warned me, they did. About hiring out of the musician pool. Still, I thought better of you."

Holmes watched him go. He heaved a sigh and turned back towards the stage door, only to find someone standing in his way. It was the director that he had lampooned so mercilessly the last time he had been here. The two looked each other up and down coolly. Finally, Holmes gave him a nod and hurried for the door, skirting around the man without a glance back, ill-equipped to deal with any more confrontation just now.

He had reached the alley and was making a bid for the street when the Director caught up to him, yelling at him from the open stage door.

"Young man?!" As soon as Holmes stopped the Director hopped down from the door the few inches into the alley and marched up to Holmes, his long multi-colored scarf flapping out behind him.

"Young man, wait! Wait! I need to speak with you."

He pulled up just short of knocking directly into the detective and looked up him with bloodshot hound-dog eyes, almost buried in folds of bristly flesh. His eyebrows were long and slanted downwards, some of the longer hairs curling to almost touch his fine eyelashes. He had obviously not slept in days.

"I'm in a terrible position," he pressed on, "I need your help. What was your name again?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And you have acted before?"

"No, never."

The man looked flabbergasted. "But, you _do_ know all Horatio's lines from _Hamlet_ , do you not?"

"I do."

The Director considered, toying with his silken scarf. "Very well, I have a proposition for you."

"All right." Holmes waited.

The smaller man looked around, as if searching for a place to sit. The alley was deserted save for a stray cat and three empty coal sacks, moldering opposite the stage door against the wooden fence.

The sky overhead looked low and bruised. Grudgingly, he leaned his back against the brick wall of the theatre in defeat and drew a gloved hand across his brow. "I am leading a troupe of actors on a tour of America. The play, as you know, is _Hamlet_. We are leaving at the end of the week. The tour will last eight months, and I find myself in need of an actor to play Horatio. Someone who already knows the lines and would be willing to come with us on such short notice. Would this interest you?"

"What of the man you already had?"

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, something we must all accept about this business: The theatre is our mistress - we must love her, but that does not mean that she must love us in return."

Holmes considered this for a moment. "So the other actor?"

"Has suffered a head injury due to falling out a second story tavern window after a particularly flamboyant evening of drinking. He will be unable to fulfil the terms of his contract, and has therefore been let go."

"Ah. And you have no qualms about taking on a first-time actor for the role?"

"I have many qualms, but the money for the tour is already spent. It must go ahead. I'm tired of so many of the actors in this town. I want someone new. For my own sanity. I can rehearse you on the boat during the journey over."

"An intriguing offer, I must say. When would you need my answer by?"

"I will be here in the afternoon tomorrow from one until five. If I have not heard from you by five, I will assume you do not wish to accompany us." The diminutive thespian stood up from the wall, straightening his coat. "You should accept Mr. Holmes. I believe I can get a performance out of you that would be worth seeing."

Holmes smiled. "No doubt. I will give you my answer tomorrow before five. In the meantime, I have only one more question."

"Very well."

"Actually, it's a condition. It concerns my wife."

* * *

Kit sat next to Mycroft on the stone steps of the Diogenes club, oblivious to the horrified stares of entering club members. She knew it was frowned on, but while waiting for Mycroft she had sunk down on the steps, unable to support herself any longer.

When Mycroft exited the building and found her thus, instead of reproach, he had simply sat down next to her, crossing his hands over the top of his cane and resting his chin on his hands. They were seated that way still, a full fifteen minutes later.

"And you're sure he said her was going to find Harry Wilcox?" She asked.

"If Wilcox also goes by the name _The Tash_ , then, yes, I'm afraid so. He said he was going to try the theatre, and if he finds nothing there, then he'd go see Harry. I'll be honest, I didn't really understand that part of the conversation, but we were having such a feeling chat that I didn't want to disappoint the poor boy."

Mycroft reached over and patted her hand where it lay in her lap kindly. "Don't let it worry you, my dear, Sherlock has always been a bit of a going concern for all of us. I'm sure he'll come out of it all right."

Kit frowned. "I'm sorry now I was so hard on him. He is a terribly frustrating man, and he deserved to be yelled at, but I'm still sorry I did it."

"Well, I've been reduced to growling like a bear at him more times than not. It's tiresome I know, but how else is one to get through to him?"

"But what if he's truly in danger?"

"Then we will have to trust him to find his way out of it."

"How can you be so calm about it?" Kit shifted to face him more fully, concern etched into her features.

Mycroft smiled sadly. "Years of practice. I've been looking after Sherlock since I was seven years old. Besides, you must remember, there is a type of man that needs to climb a mountain in order to assuage his guilt and show his feelings. If no mountain exists, then he will build one, even if he must heap the earth up one barrow-full at a time."

"And you believe Sherlock is in the process of making a mountain?"

"My dear, I believe he has decided nothing less than Everest will do to prove his indifference to you."

"I can't just sit around and do nothing."

"Putting yourself in danger is no way to help. I'm afraid ours may be the stand and wait kind of service. Please take my advice. Return to the room. If he hasn't found his way back by tomorrow morning, then we both of us shall go to the authorities together."

Kit considered this. She stood up, brushed off her skirts and gave Mycroft a firm nod.

"Very well. I'll do that."

He bowed from the waist as best as he could from his seated position and watched her walk off down the street with a sure, decided step.

He leaned his cheek on his hands again and smile a lopsided smile as she disappeared into the crowd.

So much for his dinner plans.


	10. White Chapel Cant

A light rain tapped on Kit's shoulders and the top of her bare head, running off the sidewalk and sending concentric rings fighting back and forth in the puddles dotting the street. She stood in the shadow of a doorway across the street from the John Street warehouses.

After her discussion with Mycroft she had hurried home, picked out the plainest dress she owned, and found a formless, torn shawl to drape across her shoulders. She had forgone make-up and unbound her left hand. She had also removed the sling from her right arm. In every way she was able she had transformed herself into another drab denizen of the night-time city, not destitute, but not comfortable either. The type of person who would attract no attention in an area such as this.

The building was ominous-looking, crouched on the dark street under a lolling white crescent moon. The tall windows of the second story looked down on her, sightless and empty.

Kit swallowed back her fear. She had visited The Royal Olympic, only to be told that Holmes had been there earlier, but had already gone by the time she had arrived. He had not returned to his rooms on Montague Street, nor to their shared accommodation on Bread Street. This was the last option she had, and something about the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that he was in there, somewhere in the crumbling, seething interior, hunting a man who could as easily kill him as look at him.

Kit felt her shoulders tense at the thought. She knew she was not welcome, and if she was able to find him that Sherlock would be angry - but she would not sit on the edge of her bed somewhere safe and watch the hands of the clock tick off what could be that last of his life. Not while she was still able to function.

And for once her residence in the White Chapel area could work to her advantage. It was impossible to live in this part of the city without becoming familiar with the street slang, the traditions, the regular comings and goings of the underground community. Thieves, card sharps, coiners, pimps, cracksmen, lushingtons, and crows, she had no dealings with them herself, but she saw them each and every day, and knew how to conduct herself around them.

If there was any way she could help Sherlock, she felt she owed it to him to try it. She pulled her shawl tighter around her and set out across the street, reaching the door and going inside before she could change her mind.

The familiar narrow hallway swallowed her up. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the new level of light and the thicker air, clammy with plaster dust and moisture. Still no guards. This empty hallway filled her with dread.

Above her she could hear the creak of footsteps, the throb of people shuffling back and forth through the building. Her boots crunched on shards of broken glass and crumpled newsprint. Wax pooled on the floor beneath the anemic forced herself to walk forward, stopping at the first opening.

She ducked into the axillary hall and approached the rickety wooden staircase clinging tentatively to the wall. It groaned and jarred as she ascended. She reached the top landing and passed through a small doorway into a longer hall.

As she turned left a figure loomed up at her out of the shadows, an ape of a man with hairy knuckles and sprawling breadth. His powerful shoulders tightened his grimy shirt across his chest, straining the buttons.

She almost gasped and turned aside, but with a tremendous effort kept herself silent. Her eyes she kept glued to the ground. The smell of sweat and tobacco and grease reached her from the sentinel, who shuffled closer, grasped her chin, and yanked her head up to see her better.

Kit tried to keep her eyes glazed, and with a silent prayer called up the worst and most hacking cough she could muster, letting the saliva fly from her loose lips as she doubled over, covering her face with an open palm.

The man's lips curled back from his teeth. "Here," he rumbled, "We've got no use for your lot. Our girls are clean. No toff's gonna pay for a glim." His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere subterranean.

She could have laughed at that. "Who are you telling? You've never seen a clean girl come in here. The only difference is that you know what you're getting with me. Your girls have to be unwrapped before the toffs get their present."

His eyes widened, but he didn't contradict her.

She took a deep shuddering breath. "Besides, I'm not here to work for you, I'm here looking for someone."

"Who?"

"The Tash."

"Harry? What do you want with that Demander?"

Kit smiled. There were as many forms of street slang as there were square city blocks in some places. But some of the words stretched over many neighborhoods. _Glim_ could have a good many meanings, most of the ones she had heard had something to do with fire or burning. Hence, using it to describe a venereal disease. A _Demander_ was a collector of debts. Kit had to beware now, because by admitting that she understood him, she admitted to being in a class much lower than her own. Much too low to be sporting clothes that were anything other than rags. If asked she reminded herself she would have to lie and say what she was wearing was stolen. She also realized that she had to be careful not to let her normal vocabulary sneak in to their conversation. Hopefully she hadn't given herself away already.

She hadn't realized at first how hard this was going to be.

It sounded from the man's tone that he was none too fond of the man from Soho. She took the chance, clutching her hands over her stomach and hoping for the best. "It's none of your business."

He noticed the gesture, and his mouth twisted into a black sneer wringed with crooked teeth. "Knapped, are you?"

"So what if I am?"

"Then you really can't work for me. Toffs don't want a pregnant Judy either."

"Toffs will take anything they can get. Find someone else to lie to. Now, just point me in the direction of that man and step out of the way. He's got me to deal with."

The Ape swept his eyes over her, considering. He took in her bound hand, the still-present bruises on her face. He chuckled.

"Aye, let him have it, girl. My woman screamed ten ways from Sunday the first one I gave her. She's learned better now."

Kit shuddered and he pointed down the hall towards the dim far end. "Down the hall you turn left, you'll hear the Fancy at the end, go towards that. That's the Bruisers. Through that you'll find the Dragon's Den, and past that you'll find them spreading the broads. Harry'll be with them."

Kit translated. _Down the hall to the left you'll hear a crowd. Follow along to find the boxing. Through that room to the opium den, and then the gambling room_.

She nodded. At least he wasn't using cockney rhyming slang or back slang. She wasn't as familiar with it as she was with The Chapel street cant.

He took a step back from her and inclined his head to let her pass. Kit shuffled down the hall, keeping her arms locked around her middle.

This passage was thick with the smells of smoke and perfume. On each side of the hall was a close row of doors. The rooms within must be too small for anything but a bed and chair.

A few women prowled the hallway, leaving their rooms open to air out in between clients. Kit kept her head high as she walked straight through a group of them. The women didn't move out of her way, but they didn't stop her either. She caught a glimpse of heavily made-up faces, rouge and powder hiding the lines of wear, fear, and ill-health.

A door opened and a man came out, hitching his braces back up over his shoulders. A smaller man from the far end of the hall approached him, hand out, and the half-clad man dropped a few coins into his palm and headed back the way Kit had come.

The smaller man noticed Kit and stopped to give her the once-over. "You're not one of ours," he informed her.

"She's looking for Harry." The Ape yelled from the other end of the hall. The smaller man flashed her a greasy smile and hooked his hand around her upper arm.

"This way, my dear. Let me make sure you don't loose your way."

Kit pulled back, but his hand remained, a claw around her bicep. He moved down the hall, pulling her after him. She had to hurry to keep up.

"What's Harry doing right to have a twist like you chasing him down?"

"Wouldn't you love to know."

She knew it sounded lame, but she tried to imbue it with some kind of bravado. She felt out of her depth, and distinctly uncomfortable. He threw a smile at her, and she could see his tongue polishing his teeth behind his lips.

"Oh, missus, if he can't keep you happy you know where to find me, right?"

"One step at a time, Hector."

"I'm no Hector. The man at the other end, he's the Cash Carrier. I'm just a common crow, Judy."

Not the pimp then, she mused. Just the lookout. And she could place him as well. A Haymarket Hector was the slang for pimp in the Haymarket and Leicester Square areas. Farther east they were called Cash Carriers. They turned left at the end of the hall and carried on farther into the darkness. His hand was digging into her flesh, leaving marks.

They came to another low hole in the wall, with a staircase hastily erected on the other side. When they reached the landing a room opened up beneath them.

Kit looked out over an expanse of bare heads and shoulders. It was mostly men, hats and coats thrown off, sleeves rolled back, waiving betting slips over their heads at the bookies roaming the floor.

The smell of sweat in this room was choking. There was a ring at the center, the platform spread with tightly stretched canvas. There were a number of reddish-brown stains splashed across the off-white surface.

Two men in tight cloth pants and pumps stood in opposite corners of the ring, having their glove laces tightened by young boys in need of cleaner clothes and better nourishment. The whole thing was dirty, dark, and rank.

Kit swallowed back her rising stomach a few times.

The man leading her began to descend, pulling her with him. She followed, but upon reaching the floor she yanked her arm away from him. He kept his hold on her, jerking her closer.

"You listen to me, Judy, I'll get you to The Tash right enough, but how long it takes us to get there is up to me. There are a few detours around here. Nice, dark cribs with a few hidden debs to choose from."

This man favored cockney rhyming slang. Kit struggled with his meaning for a moment, but she knew enough to know that a _Crib_ was a hiding place, and a _Deb_ was a bed. The combination of both in one sentence caused her heart-rate to increase.

She struggled to get a hold on her panic, but the look in his eye told her he was seriously considering doing her harm. She pulled her arm away again, this time yelling as she did.

"I told you to let me go!"

He snarled, grabbing her other shoulder with his free hand, pulling her along through the now parting crowd.

A few onlookers watched with interest, but Kit knew no one would come to her aid. This type of thing was far too common around here to raise any real concern. She jerked back again, lowering her center of gravity by crouching down, and leaned over to bite his wrist where she could reach it fastened as he was onto her arm.

A moment later a ham first connected with the jaw of the smaller man, sending him flying backwards. He released his hold on her as he did. Stunned, Kit turned to get a look at her savior.

It was the Ape from the hallway. He strode over to the small man and hauled him off the floor, dragging him by the scruff back towards the stairs.

"Thank you." Kit stammered.

"He knows better than to walk away on the job. Now we've had two toffs that was able to slip away without paying duce." He shoved the man towards the stairs in front of him and kicked him in the backside to hurry him along on his way.

The big man turned back to her and pointed to a doorway draped in curtain at the other end of the room.

"Through there and no stopping. I likes to see a bit of flash now and again in a twist, but you'll come to no good here straight away. It doesn't take a Jack to see you don't belong here."

He turned on his heel and marched after his smaller business partner, leaving the warning ringing in her ears. _It doesn't take a detective to see you don't belong here_. She took a deep breath and turned towards the exit.

As soon as he was gone the circle of onlookers began to close ranks, tightening around her.

She looked from face to face, all blank and dark, some had nostrils flared with undissipated blood lust, still buzzing from watching the last fight. Others were simply curious.

Whatever they were, they were too close for her comfort, and she pushed through the circle around her and hurried towards the opposite end on the room.

She could hear the scuff of footsteps following her. There was breath on her neck, and then the bell in the ring sang out, and the crowd subsided away from her, returning its attention to the two men inside the ropes.

She heard the announcer's voice bark out, but she did not turn to look, even when the dull splat of leather hitting flesh rained down again and again.

The crowd gave a throaty roar, now a single transfixed being, all eyes on the same sight, all lungs pushing in and out the same blood-misted air.

She ducked through the curtain and stopped short. She was in a small room, the floors covered with overlapping faded carpets. The smell was sweet and sticky.

It reminded her of a trip her father had taken her on when she was young, letting her accompany him to a small shop in Limehouse Causeway. It had been full of exotic-looking dried goods and gnarled roots, packed in boxes stacked one on top of the other.

She didn't know at the time, but they had been looking for a tea that their local doctor had recommended for her mother's then already worrying cough.

At the back of the store Kit had stumbled onto a small room. She had pulled back a torn curtain and found a ragged group of people sitting on the floor, legs crossed, feeding themselves with sticks from a single bowl held high to their faces. Behind them on a demi-table a pot filled with sand bristled with more yellow sticks. Each one let off a thin lazy curl of smoke. The smell was sweet and heavy, and unlike anything she had ever smelled before.

The family had looked up, mouths open, a frozen picture of something distant an inaccessible to her.

He father's voice brought her back, calling her to join him out on the street. He had the small package of leaves tucked into his pocket, and held his callused hand out for her to take.

She blinked back her memories of that day, the smell of what she now knew was incense tugging at the back of her mind. That long-ago mystic back room-smell, which in this place covered the much lower and more fragrant smell of opium. There was a sour tint below that as well. Something acidic. She recognized it as bile, followed by urine.

Before her was a bead curtain, and she pressed forwards, lifting the strands apart with trembling fingers before stepping through. She had no interest in proceeding, but to go back was unthinkable. She was looking for Sherlock.

She would not stop until she found him.

In front of her was the first in a series of small rooms, laid out with a single straight hallway cutting through the center of them. The smell was stronger here, and the walls were hung with cheap fabric, made to emulate Chinese sink. The floor here was also piled with overlapping oriental carpets, crusty with use.

She advanced, and in the first room came abreast of two Chinese men siting on the floor, a low table between them. On the table, a small clay tea pot, a pair of impossibly small looking tea cups, and a wall of white tiles with odd markings on them.

As she passed they looked up and watched her go. Their faces were sullen and uninviting. Kit felt threatened, but neither made a move to stop her.

As she crossed into the second room she met another Chinese man, this one old and bent. He raised a hand when she came in, and said a few words to her in a language she could not understand. He crossed to a counter and came back holding something out to her. She found herself watching the droop of his long padded sleeve, and how it revealed the length of thin wrinkled white flesh that was his arm. Rheumy eyes watched her, over a short nose and sagging mouth. From his arm her eyes traveled down the length of a long tube he was holding out to her, a bowl around the middle of it's length.

Kit tentatively took the pipe, and the man waved her through the door ahead of her. Kit swallowed and continued on her way into the next room.

It was dark and close, the smell fetid. Candles burned here and there, but on the whole there was barley enough light for her to see her way. The walls and center of the room were lined with bunks, sometimes as many as four high. Each bed was wider than she was used to, but unadorned with cushions or blankets. They were simply wooden platforms, many bearing markings of being made from re-purposed packing crates and scrap.

Men and women stretched out on these pallets, sometimes two or three to a bed, one on top of the other, some with hands dangling over the edge of their pallet, some curled into balls.

One man sat up with his back against the wall, rolling his head deliciously from side to side, while another woman let out a long puff of smoke from her pursed lips and then fell backwards, her head hanging over her pallet. None of them make any sign that they had seen her.

There was another Chinese man sitting on a stool just within the door. He lumbered to his feet when she saw her, gesturing for her to follow him. She went with him, turning sideways at times to maneuver her way through the stacks of beds and bodies. There was drapery in here as well, and the occasional sound of air being drawn bubbling through water.

Her head swam and her eyes stung. The man led her to an empty pallet far into the room, and pointed to it. He left her there, not taking his eyes off her as he left.

Kit looked around furtively, pipe clutched to her chest. She seated herself on the pallet and looked around. She could see no exit, and was unsure what to do.

There had been windows in the room at some point. She could see where they had been bricked up. One or two still remained open, but with heavy storm shutters closed over them.

There was a man laying across from her with his head at an awkward angle, pitched with his chin almost facing the ceiling, his spindly arms spread out around him, long tapered fingers twitching in the air. It was a faint movement, reminiscent of the muscle contractions of the newly dead.

Kit found the sight of him horrible. His eyes opened and closed at odd intervals, and for endless lengths of time. She could stand it when they were closed, but when opened, she could not avoid the feeling that he was staring right through her, and that all her secrets were known to him. She shifted uncomfortably. His coarse grey hair was matted, and his long hooked nose waxy and devoid of color. A pipe hung loose and forgotten in his yellowed fingers, black and sticky at the tip.

Somewhere from her row she heard laughter, unsure if it was male or female, as it was distorted with phlegm. Kit squeezed her eyes closed and pulled herself all the way onto the pallet until her back touched the wall.

She hated it, but she was paralyzed with fear. Should she get up and hunt around until she found another exit? The thought of having to weave her way through all the semi-conscious bodies repelled her. But surely she couldn't stay here. The ape at the front door had told her there was a way through, and although he had not been the most trustworthy of people, his information so far had not been wrong.

She heard voices.

Farther down the isle she could make out the slurred sounds of speech and the scrapping of feet across the floor. She got up and walked softly towards the noises.

A group of three men where leaning on one of the bunk frames around the corner. She kept herself back, watching them without being noticed.

From their upright and casual postures, she guessed that they had not come to partake of the drug sold here, but were instead cutting through to the gambling den.

She waited while they talked, sizing them up. One, their obvious leader, was a scraggly red-head of medium build, with a splash of freckles across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. The man beside him was short and blonde, with a flat forehead and thick square features. The third was tall and dark, narrow shouldered, with a rounded back. His stoop made her assume he was some kind of clerk in his day to day life. He was shifting his feet on the floor, gesturing for the rest of them to continue on their way.

The red-haired one seemed to have paused to speak to a woman laying on one of the pallets. Her hand curled out towards him and dropped. The motion was repeated several times, and the words that passed between them were uttered too low for Kit to catch.

Glancing over her shoulder, her eye was caught by the grey-haired man laying on the pallet across from hers. His head was still tilted back, almost upside down, but his eyes drilled into her with purpose. So much so that she was ready to simply walk out and join her newfound group instead of staying here under his watchful eye.

Finally, the men moved on, weaving their way through the pallets deftly. This was a route they had taken before. Kit followed at a good distance, soon feeling lost in the labyrinth of smoky rows.

She did not see the man with the grey hair roll off his pallet and follow her on shaky feet. He kept himself well back from her, as she did with her leading group, but never let her slip from his sight.

She followed the men into a dim hallway, half-hidden behind a faded dust-heavy tapestry. The hallway led to a steel door with a small peephole in it. The group of men swayed up to the door and stopped. Red Hair knocked loudly.

Kit joined the outskirts of the group.

The peephole slid open and an eye blotted out the light.

"What are you after?"

"A place to put this." Red held up a wad of bills gathered from an inside coat pocket.

The eye swept up and down them. "What about her?"

The men turned and noted her with some surprise.

Kit lifted her chin at the challenge. "I'm here for the lending library."

The squat blonde guffawed and hit the taller man on his shoulder. Red smiled a wolfish smile and turned back to the peephole. "She's with us."

The peephole slid shut and after a short screech the door swung open. She followed her new guardians inside.

After the dark of the opium den and the poorly lit hallways, the light inside the room blinded her. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust. The three men wandered some ways into the room and stopped in a loose ring around her, hands in pockets, waiting for something.

"Thank you." She stammered.

"Don't thank us, girl," Red chuckled. "I only need to know one thing."

"What?"

His hand swept over the room. "What's your pleasure, 'cause I'll be heading there."

Kit lowered her head and tried to act like she was flattered. "I'm looking for someone."

"And here I am."

His friends laughed again. Kit glanced around.

Knackered felted tables stood in no particular pattern around the room. Dealers stood sentinel over their tables while women slid around with trays of drinks.

There were several large, ugly men - former boxers by the look of their noses and ears - that stood scattered around the room, thumbs hooked into braces, watching the gamblers mill from one table to another.

The smell of alcohol was powerful here, as was the cigar smoke and perfume.

If Sherlock was here, she couldn't see him. She also knew standing here like a signpost wouldn't help either. She hooked her arm through the crook of Red's elbow and drew herself closer to him.

"In that case, can we go and look at that wheely-thingy?"

He grinned down at her in a predatory way. "My pleasure."

She allowed him to lead her across the floor, not glancing back at the entrance, where the doorman, after admitting a small grey-hair man with a bent back, disappeared down a short hallway that led to a number of inner rooms and offices.

Kit watched the people gathered around the table place their chips on the colored and numbered squares, some right in the center, some overlapping two squares, some four. Kit knew the basics of Roulette, but not the intricacies of the betting.

Red handed his money to one of his friends to go and change for chips.

Kit's eyes swept the room again, searching for a tall figure, a pair of grey eyes, even a telling slender hand. She could see nothing familiar. She felt herself physically deflate. The man beside her gave her arm a shake.

"Hey. What gives?"

Kit picked herself up again and tried a smile. "How does it work?"

"Well, You've asked the right person. There's two main types of bets, inside bets and outside bets. Inside bets tend to pay out better." He continued, but Kit felt her attention drifting.

Close by was a black-jack table, and her gaze stopped on a familiar figure. A bent old man with grey hair. He looked slightly different now not lolling on a pallet upside down, but it was definitely the same man she had seen watching her in the opium den.

Red was still talking to her. "...A snake bet, which is a special kinda dozen bet that has the numbers 1,5,9,12…"

She pulled her hand away and turned towards the door.

Sherlock was not here, and the pit of her stomach was telling her that something was not right. She felt too exposed here.

"Hey, where are you going?" Red called after her.

She only made it three steps before a man loomed up out of the crowd and blocked her way. It happened so fast she didn't have time to stop before she crashed right into him.

"Miss Rushford," He said with a smooth voice. One that she recognized from somewhere. "I'm delighted to see you again."

Kit looked up at his cavernous face, with delicate cheekbones, and a pinched nose hooked at its end over an immaculately trimmed mustache.

She didn't know him, but her mind flashed back to dark city streets, and then the even darker corners of the tunnels downstairs the first time she and Sherlock had stumbled upon each other. The smooth voice echoed back through her mind, and his citrus smell made her stomach turn.

He wore Mr. Brewster's Cosmetic Lime Wax for Gentlemen.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed y'all. Only a few chapters left. Leave me a comment in the box below and let me know what you think!**


	11. Fight, Flight, or Burn

Two men hustled Kit between them across the room. Holding tightly to her forearms, they were able to lift her enough that she could not dig her heels in. She had to hurry to keep from falling.

Harry strolled along behind them, nodding pleasantly to those he recognized. Any looks of interest were met by the unspoken challenge in his cold eyes.

Overall, a very few of the patrons noticed the departure. The tall woman had garnered a few interested looks when she had entered. Her face was too striking to entirely ignore. She had drawn an admiring eye or two, but for the most part the gamblers were too involved in their own affairs to care about her. Kit was shocked at how many heads stayed bent over their tables.

She was conducted across the hazy room and into a narrow hallway. At the end of which was a heavy wooden door. This was opened for her and closed with a resounding thud the moment the group was inside.

After which the gambling floor returned to normal. As if by mutual consent, they all forgot that such a woman had ever existed. All except one old man, who disengaged himself from his table and shuffled towards the shadowy hallway.

* * *

Harry Wilcox crossed behind his desk and sat, gesturing for Kit to do the same in a straight backed wooden chair across from him. Kit shook her head. One of the two men behind her, a bald giant with thick side whiskers, pushed her down roughly by the shoulders. The hard wooden seat jarred her back and shoulders. The second man behind her had dusky skin and thick black hair curled into Newgate Knockers, a style where the whiskers were set back over his ears.

The room was narrow and high, like the rest of the rooms on this floor. There was a settee against one wall and a vase of dusty peacock feathers sat on a round stand beside it. The plank floor was without carpet, and years of dust and dirt were trammeled into the surface, making it look almost polished.

Harry's padded leather chair creaked comfortably as he settled his weight into it, placing his elbows on the top of his desk and leaning his chin against his laced fingers.

This was the first chance Kit had to really look at him, and she found that his face matched his voice admirably. His cheeks and forehead were smooth and unblemished. A dark sleek mustache curled under his nose, and his black hair was pomaded into a slick helmet over his head. He had liquid brown eyes, and a quick easy set about his mouth. He was dressed impeccably. She could tell that everything he wore was hand-tailored. His jacket and waistcoat were a light caramel color, his watch chain of gold. Obviously the collection business was treating him well.

"Miss Rushford," he said, his smooth voice filling the silent room. "What are you doing here?"

Her throat felt dry and tight, but she lifted her chin. "What do most people do at a gambling hall, Mr. Wilcox?"

He smiled at her, displaying a row of straight, though stained teeth. His fingers tapped on his desktop. It was a large piece of furniture, obviously well-made. So far, it looked like the only thing in the entire building that had had any money or thought put into the purchase of it.

"I hear you've been looking for me?"

The office door behind them opened and closed. Kit fought to swallow. Under no circumstances would she give this man any ground if she could help it. "I don't know where you would have heard that Mr. Wilcox, but you have been misinformed."

Harry's eyes flicked behind her and Kit swiveled her head to take in the newcomer standing behind her. It was her Haymarket Hector, the man who had threatened her in the boxing ring. He smiled down at her.

"This is my place," Harry carried on, selecting a cigarette out of a large carved wooden box that accompanied his ink pot and other writing tools at the front of his desk. He offered one to her. Kit declined with a shake of the head.

"I know everything that goes on in those rooms." He nodded towards the gambling floor. "And I was surprised after our last meeting that you would be so eager to see me again."

Kit stifled the feelings of rage that were growing in her.

"How are you adjusting by the way?" He asked. "Growing used to your new lifestyle? It must be hard without your hands."

There were a few stray chuckles from behind her. Kit started to rise, but rough hands pushed her back down. Hector came forward and whispered something into Harry's ear. A frown momentarily creased the demander's brow. He waved his hand towards the door. "Bring him in," he said.

Hector exited, and then returned a few moments later in the company of two other men, One with the hammer fists of a boxer, the other built like a barrel with arms and legs. They dragged an old man between them.

His thin body was bent almost double, and they dropped him unceremoniously into the seat beside Kit. He stirred feebly, and set about trying to straighten his disheveled clothes. Kit recognized his grey tousled hair from the opium den, and then again from the gambling room. She had no idea why he had followed her, and she didn't know if she should be more concerned or comforted by the presence of another person in the midst of her situation.

Especially since now instead of two men in the room with her and Harry and the old man, there were four, standing silent and ready behind her. One of the new men carried a cane hooked over the crook of his arm. It looked stout and well-used.

Hector returned to Harry's side, and this time Kit was able to catch a few words.

"…Not sure, but something has 'em all spooked."

"Send a runner to find out what's going on." Harry instructed Hector, and then waited until he had left the room again before turning his attention back to his two unwilling visitors.

"And you are?" He addressed the old man.

"A friend." The man's voice was a breathy wheeze.

"A friend I've never met before, snooping around outside my office door?"

"I was about to knock when your guard dogs set upon me. I tried to explain that I had something very valuable to offer you, but they wouldn't listen."

"What could _you_ have for _me_?"

"A deal. Send the woman away and we'll talk about it."

"The twist stays. What kind of deal would I possibly be interested in talking about with an old duffer like you?"

"I've no stolen goods for you."

"Then what are you?"

"A fence. Unless I am mistaken, you have an item that you'll need getting rid of. I can help with that."

Harry's face paled, and then laughter burst out of him, rocking him back and forth in his chair. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it out. "Well done, Jack. Who told you that?"

"I have my informants, as you have yours sir."

Harry lit another cigarette, blowing the smoke in the air above his head. His face danced in the candle light thrown from the sconces on the wall. Kit felt her muscles tighten as she watched him.

The room was so still she could hear the scrape of his fingernails over fabric as he smoothed one of his pant legs over his knee. There was a distant scratching as well, dull and rhythmical, the small sound of a rodent burrowing for warmth or food. She could even smell the men standing behind her, warm and unwashed, sour with sweat and the pheromones that accompanied aggression. Adrenaline, hot breath, musk.

"You've been lied to, Jack. I've got nothing like that." Harry said, laying his hands flat on the desk, caressing one of them over the polished wood.

"You are the one who is lying," the old man returned, unshaken. "But it doesn't matter. I will come back another time and take it."

Harry came around his desk and leaned his hip against the front of it. He smiled at Kit, gesturing to the old man. "This one's all mouth isn't he? Too bad for both of you. I was hoping you and I would be able to get along. But now I'll have to send the both of you for a nice long float down the Thames."

"You are scum, sir." The man wheezed back.

Kit blinked at him, hardly believing that she had heard him correctly. Hadn't he gotten them into enough trouble as it was?!

"You are a worm that only survives by collecting debts for larger earth-crawlers," he continued. "If I had my way I would see you locked away to rot somewhere small and cold."

There was a slow rustle of moving bodies from behind their seats, drawing closer. Harry took a long drag from his cigarette, then stood. His hand fell to Kit's shoulder, then slid up to the back of her neck, where he snatched a fist-full of hair, tilting her head back. He took another drag of the cigarette, now bringing the burning end closer to Kit's face.

"I've already done you down once already, girl," he whispered. "Didn't realize I'd get a second chance at it. So it'll be you and me now, and the boys here will take care of your friend. I promise you, by the time we're done, no one will ever recognize either of you again."

Kit shot a sidelong glance at the old man beside her. For the first time he was looking straight at her, his head cocked to one side. There was a strange look in his eye. Something familiar and mocking. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn that she had seen that look somewhere before.

He smiled at her.

Kit would have been shocked if she had the time, but something blurred from behind her companion, and the barrel chested man with the cane draped over his arm swung it up and dropped it over the old man's head across his throat.

Harry pulled her head closer to him, bringing the smoldering end of his cigarette in line with her eye. The move cut off her view of the old man, and she missed seeing his lightning reaction to his aggressor. His hands snapped up from his lap to grab the cane at either end, twisting it end over end and yanking it out of the younger man's grasp.

He pointed the end towards Harry and smashed the tip directly into his nose, sending the mustached man sprawling backwards across his desk.

He then darted the hooked end behind him, connecting with the human barrel's gut. The man groaned and clutched his stomach.

The old man now sprung from his chair, turning to face the four men behind him.

Harry staggered up, seeing the man's back to him, and hurried around to the far side of his desk. He started to rummage in one of his drawers. Kit stood, took the chair from under her, and flung it at Harry with all her might. It caught him in the chest, sending him back into the wall.

Kit knew that she had only stalled him, and that he would soon regain his balance. Without thinking she lunged forward, crawling onto his desk, grabbed the heavy carved box of cigarettes and threw it at his head. Harry's hands came up to defend himself, and Kit was able to twist into a seated position on the desktop and drive both booted feet directly into his unprotected middle.

Harry groaned and dropped to his knees, and Kit scrambled back off the desk onto the floor.

She found the old man holding the cane over his head, hooked end towards him, in a stance that looked vaguely like a flamboyant fencer. Two men came at him, the bald one and Newgate Knockers, and he delivered a stab to Newgate's throat, dropping him instantly to his knees, choking and clawing around his collar.

The bald man he rained down blows on from his en garde above his head. Mercilessly the hard wood of the stick connected with the man's elbows and knees, smashing away at the joints repeatedly. Then the old man stepped deftly forward, snaking his foot behind that of his opponent and pushed him backward, sending him off balance and tumbling to the ground, landing hard on his back and smacking his head into the wooden floor.

The boxer pushed his way through now, blond and built like a bull, with massive shoulders. The cane was there to meet him again, shooting forward and catching the man around the back of the neck. The old man jerked his attacker's head forward, driving a slim knee into the man's stomach, and then using the cane again to pull the man's face down into a second knee to the nose. He jerked the boxer past him, sending him sliding across the desk into Harry, who had staggered to his feet.

Both men fell in a heap to the floor.

Barrel Chest had managed to recover enough to re-join the fight, and he took advantage of the old man's momentum to come up behind him and grab him by the throat. The old man dropped the cane, choking loudly.

Kit scooped the cane up and delivered a sharp hard hit across the back of the Barrel's skull. He crumpled before her, leaving the old man staring at her with saucer eyes, rubbing his angry red throat. A second later he regained his head and took her firmly by the wrist, dragging her towards the door.

The door swung open to meet them, and Hector ran in, yelling as he did "Harry, it's the Blue Bottles! They're coming through the street entrance, lots 'a them, the whole place has gone up."

He stopped short, taking in the scene, his eyes finally coming to rest on the old man and Kit, who drew up, waiting. There was one short hard breath between them all, and then Kit drew back her foot and kicked Hector in the groin. He dropped with a cry, coughing and gagging. "Take that to your crib." She realized that this was becoming a favored move of hers.

She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and turned to her elderly companion, who was still frozen in shock. "Well?"

He hurried out the door, sure now that she could follow without his assistance.

It took Harry and his men only a moment to collect themselves and run after them. Hector stayed on the floor, waiting for the pain to subside before he could move.

Kit followed her new friend out into the gambling floor. Everything was in movement. People hurried different directions, dealers scraped up chips into open sacks, while the bouncers elbowed their way across the crowds.

The old man charged through the swarms of people, dragging Kit by the wrist after him. It didn't occur to her in the speed of the moment to notice that despite the number of times he had grabbed her, it was always her wrist or elbow, never either of her hands.

Harry's men came spilling out of the office hallway after them, but crashed into a large group, giving Kit and her friend time to escape out the steel door.

* * *

The opium den was loud and crowded, people called to each other over the stacks of recumbent bodies. Anyone there with enough sense to move was lurching off their pallets to join the exodus.

The old man dragged Kit to one of the isles closest to the wall, and in the dim light she saw that he was shedding his clothes as he did. His jacket and waistcoat flew under one of the bunks, followed by a blur of grey, which it took a second for her to realize was a wig. His strong hand grabbed her again and pulled her up short.

She looked up into the very angry face of Sherlock Holmes. Make-up still streaked his face, and his skin beneath was flushed.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Under the pallet, Miss Rushford. Now."

She asked no questions, just dropped to her knees, and then her stomach, crawling under the empty set of bunks beside them. The space was barley high enough for her to fit, but she sucked in a deep breath and wedged herself as far back as she could.

Holmes picked up a pipe that had been abandoned by a fleeing customer, and threw himself out on his stomach over the pallet above her, cushioning his face in his crossed arms. The rush of people subsided. Soon he was able to make out distinct sets of footsteps. There were five of six in particular that cross-crossed the room. As the silence settled he could hear them talking back and forth to each other.

"They must have gone on ahead."

"I didn't see them go through the door. They must be here somewhere."

"Bloody hell."

"Here, turn these people over. One old man can't be that hard to find!" That was Harry, Holmes recognized the voice.

The only people left in the room were either unconscious, nearly so, or looking for himself and Kit. Two sets of footsteps distinguished themselves as they approached, only a few bunks away. He heard a muffled sound. A rustling of clothing maybe?

He realized that the men were turning the sleepers over to look at their faces. A rough hand grabbed his shoulder. Holmes allowed himself to be jerked up and tossed over onto his back. He fluttered his eyelids, but did not open them. All he could do was hope that without his disguise on, they would pass him by. In the dark behind his eyelids he picked out the sound of heavy breathing, and then a foot nudged his hip.

"Look at these toffs. Waste of skin in'e?"

"Come on, the others are getting ahead."

The footsteps continued on, fading with distance until silence reigned again.

Holmes rolled back onto his stomach and dangled his head over the side of the pallet. Kit's eyes were wide and glittering. She waited patiently. He gestured for her to come out. She shuffled out with care, only able to support her weight on one hand. Finally, she raised herself to her knees, then her feet. Holmes stood and faced her, casting the opium pipe aside.

"Don't tell me," his voice was hard. "You're here to help."

"Are you suggesting that I'm not being helpful right now?"

Holmes swallowed the beginnings of several sentences, before his index finger rose between them and pointed into her face.

"If you ever…" He was so angry he couldn't finish. He dropped his hand and spun away from her, stalking quickly towards the exit. "Follow me."

The crossed the deserted boxing ring, headed for the stairs.

"What exactly is happening?"

"Someone has called the police. The rats are abandoning ship."

"Don't we want the police here, though?"

"I fear soon they will wish there were anywhere else."

"Why?"

They pounded up the stairs and turned down the long hall now devoid of working girls. All the doors were shut tight. Kit noticed a dull roar coming from somewhere ahead. It was a sound she could not quite place.

"Do you remember that you once asked me why there were no guards on the front doors? And I told you that I thought it was on purpose?"

"Yes."

"Can you deduce why?"

"No. Tell me." The roar was growing louder the closer they got to the end of the hall.

"Because if you're leading a group into a canyon ambush, you don't post sentries at the mouth of the canyon. You wait until the victims have entered the trap, and then attack them from above."

"So you're saying that the police…?"

"Won't be able to fight their way far enough in to gain the upper hand. They will be bottled up in the hallway. Just like lambs shunted together in a slaughterhouse."

"Oh, my God."

They reached the end of the hall and ducked through onto the landing of the staircase leading down to main entrance tunnel. Here they were forced to stop. The crush of bodies made it impossible to go any further. The roar came from the mouths of the mob, pressed together, struggling and pushing to get closer to the exit. The staircase was packed. The floor below it as well.

Kit could see over the bobbing heads through the small opening in the wall that the main hallway was full of men in blue uniforms, jostling and flailing. The mob closest to the door was a mass of hands and arms, pushing the police back, throwing fists and debris randomly into the room.

A shot rang out, deafening in the closed space, and a woman screamed.

Beside the small ground level doorway, the plaster cracked and buckled. A moment later the wall shattered and several officers fell through, pushed by the weight of all the men behind them.

"Why don't the police just pull back?" She shouted at Holmes.

"Disoriented." He yelled back.

The scent of smoke reached her, and another sound hummed under the jumble of human voices. It sounded like a rush of fast air.

"They've knocked over the candles in the hall." Holmes was shouting in her ear, pushing them back up the steps against the sweeping crowd. "We can't get out this way."

The wooden staircase under them creaked and swayed. Kit realized that the weight of the large group on it was causing it to separate from the wall. With a loud squeal it wrenched free.

"Back up." Holmes yelled as he pushed her towards the top of the stairs. "Back up."

Kit whirled and ran for it, praying that he was close behind her. The smoke thickened, and she could hear the jumble of voices increase as more people realized that the stairs were about to give way beneath them.

She felt Holmes' hand on her lower back, pushing her the last few steps up and through the narrow doorway back into the hall. With a prolonged crack the stairs slumped sideways, hitting the opposite wall and then collapsing all at once to the floor, throwing dust and splinters.

The few people who had managed to make their way off the structure and back into the hallway ran away, searching for another exit.

Holmes took a few deep breaths. He could feel the temperature in the small space rising. Kit stood close to him, pressed against the wall, shoulders slumped.

Holmes' anger left him in that moment. He knew it was only a mask covering his fear at the thought of anything hurting her. He was almost blind with it. He felt powerless, while at the same time willing to go to any lengths to see her safely away from here.

Her shoulders shook slightly, and he went to her, pulled her tight against him and pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "It's all right," he crooned. "You're fine. I won't let anything happen to you."

She broke a way from him, frowning up into his face. "Me?! I'm worried about you, you stupid man. The building is on fire!"

He blinked down at her, startled, and in that moment came to one very important life decision. He never again wanted to spend another day without Kit Rushford.

Which meant that they had better hurry.

* * *

They ran down the hallway, away from the creeping smoke and sounds of struggle, knocking on each door as they hurried past, checking that the women within had escaped from the tiny rooms. Everyone seemed to have fled already.

They carried on across the abandoned boxing area, the canvas of the ring glowing yellow in the candle light.

The operators of the opium den had departed as well. Incense and pipe smoke swirled in the quiet air. It was an eerie quiet, interrupted only by the occasional distant thud or muffled cry.

Holmes pulled her through the outer rooms into the inner den, back to where the ones that had truly given themselves over to the drug remained, many unconscious and insensible to the danger around them.

"We'll never get them all out of here," Holmes breathed. "There are too many for us to carry."

"There must be another way out," she pleaded, scanning the room for anything that might help move the insensible bodies. Her eye fell on the storm shutters she had noticed earlier.

"Sherlock, the windows!"

He didn't need to be told twice. Many of the windows were sealed with brick and mortar, but a few had steel storm shutters bolted closed to stop the candle light from leaking out. The shutters were fastened with long iron crossbars, fitted through brackets much like those used to bar the doors of a medieval castles. These here were shorter and lighter, but in many cases rusted into place.

Holmes hooked his shoulder under one such bar and used the strength of his legs to try and press upwards, dislodging it.

"Stuck," He grunted. "Try another."

Kit ran from window to window, applying her shoulder to the bars until she found one that gave slightly under her pressure.

"This one."

He hurried over to her, and pushing and jiggling together they managed to break it free from the brackets and hurl it to the ground. Holmes jammed his fingers into the center join of the shutters and was able to pull them open. The metal shrieked as it slowly parted, revealing the tall windows beneath.

"Find something to break it," he commanded.

There was an overturned chair a few feet away from them. Kit pointed it out to him. Homes retrieved it and flung it with all his strength at the window. Glass shards exploded outwards, larger pieces dropping to shatter dangerously on the floor at their feet. He kicked out the remaining razor sharp pieces that clung to the frame, clearing a safe path to move the bodies through.

He leaned out into the night air.

The street roiled with movement. Police officers ran back and forth in the rain, citizens of the neighborhood stood fascinated on the street across from the building. There was a mass of indistinguishable yelling and flailing. A few windows on the lower levels had been broken out, and men and women flowed out like water overcoming a dam. Officers were able to grab a few, but the bulk were disappearing down the endless and winding streets surrounding the neighborhood, most of them making in the direction of the docks.

The opens windows had also allowed a rush of air to enter the building, feeding the already growing flames and blowing them into even greater life.

The fire brigade had yet to appear, and there was a general panic, fed by fear and disorder.

"Oy!" Holmes yelled down into the street. He had to yell several times to be heard over the tumult.

Finally, a police officer looked up at the window. Seeing Holmes, he nudged the man beside him and both ran over to stand below him, heads craning up.

"There are people up here," Holmes yelled down at them. "We'll have to jump. Do you have a net?"

The officers shook their heads. A few more people had stopped in their travels to see what was going on, and one young officer, barley out of his teens from the looks of his ash-streaked face, spoke up.

"We have a blanket. How would that be?"

"Yes, anything. These people will need help." Holmes replied.

Inside, Kit ran over to the first man she saw, unconscious, head lolling against the cushion of his bent arm, and tried to haul him off his pallet over to the window. Sherlock joined her, taking the man's upper body. Together they were able to drag him to the window.

By the time they had managed it several of the police had retrieved a wool blanket out of the back of one of the Black Marias and stretched it between them under the opening, making a landing area for the trapped people to jump into.

Holmes draped the man half over the sill, and with an inelegant shove sent him tumbling the rest of the way down.

The man plummeted, hitting the blanket with a grunt. The police bounced him once, and rolled him safely out onto the pavement.

Meanwhile Kit had already gone in search of the next person.

"Wait for me, wait for me," Holmes calmed her, helping to maneuver the next woman, with long stringy hair and pale lips off her pallet between them. "You can't lift them all on your own. Let me help you."

Smoke crept into the room, obscuring the ceiling. Body after body, Holmes and Kit dragged the unconscious or disoriented people to the window and tipped them out, until a running inspection of the room proved in empty. In all they have evacuated nine people. Just in time it seemed, as the air was becoming too thick to breathe, the heat causing sweat to flow freely from them both.

Holmes motioned Kit to the window. "Your turn."

She pulled away. "I'm not going without you."

"Yes you are. I'll be right behind you."

"You're going back for the earrings aren't you?"

"Of course not."

Her left hand connected with his face in a resounding slap.

They both froze, staring at each other. Kit's hand flew to her mouth. She hadn't planned to do it, but her desperation had changed to anger against him. Couldn't he just throw away his damnable stubbornness this once? The thought of him trapped here, without anyone to help, filled her with terror. He opened his mouth, but snapped it shut again, unsure what to say.

"That's for lying to me," she explained.

Holmes scooped her up into his arms, carrying her to the window. She clung to his neck, feeling his heart pounding between them. "Sherlock! Don't you dare!"

She struggled, but he was too strong for her. Her forehead grazed the sandpaper of his unshaven cheek. She was amazed at how effortlessly he managed her weight. Amazed and furious. He held her close, minimizing her ability to struggle. She clawed at him, finally managing to spit her words at him. "If anything happens to you I'll never forgive you!"

His chest rose and fell in a laugh. "If anything happens to you, my dear, I'll never forgive myself either."

He leaned out the window with her. "I promise I will be with you directly."

Then he let her go.


	12. Ashes

Kit felt as though she hung motionless for a split second, unable to comprehend that his arms were no longer there. And then she was falling down, down, down, until her back struck something yielding. The blanket sagged with her weight. There were hands on her arms, dragging her up and planting her firmly on the street.

She spun and looked back up at the window. Holmes had waited until he saw that she had landed safely. His head disappeared as she watched it, the window left empty except for the smoke billowing into the night sky. She shivered in the rain.

"Are there more?" One man yelled at her. She nodded her head, looking around with dull eyes.

The chaos had increased. The flames that engulfed the building rose and licked, casting an angry orange glow of the faces of everyone present. The fire brigade had arrived, and were trying to organized themselves into some kind of useful presence, made more difficult by the sheer number of people racing back and forth.

It was obvious that the block was a lost hope. Instead the firemen focused on keeping the flames from spreading across the street into the facing buildings. The rain hissed on the hot pavement. Kit could feel the heat driving her backwards, away from the conflagration.

She sheltered in a covered doorway across the street, gaze sweeping over the crowd. She noted their looks of fear and horror, mixed with the excitement and interest so common during a catastrophe. Children dodged in an out of their parent's legs, getting underfoot and pitching rocks at the few still intact windows remaining in the building.

Kit watched a pair of small boys snatch an abandoned policeman's hat off the back of a Maria and run away. As they ran they passed a portly figure standing in a doorway towards the end of the block. Something about the figure struck Kit as familiar. Perhaps the way he leaned against his cane. He turned towards her, and his grey eyes flashed, reflecting the bright street. Kit would have sworn it was Mycroft. A group of people passed in front of her, and when she could make out the spot again it was empty.

She felt her legs finally start to give way. Her head was light with worry. She looked back to the flaming building, scanning the windows, searching for any sign of Holmes. Her knees buckled, and she let herself down into a sitting position, her back braced against the brick wall. The feeling of loss was so keen it felt like blades cutting into her chest.

She found herself praying, something she rarely did. "Dear Lord, please help him get out safely. Get him out safely so that I can knock his bloody infuriating head off and into next week."

* * *

Holmes found his way back to the gambling floor. The smoke was thinner here, though he knew the fire was moving his way at an alarming speed.

He crossed the room, eerily warm and empty. He paused at the mouth of the small hallway leading to Harry's office. The place was silent. After a few more moments of intense listening, he moved forward slowly, letting his feet fall as lightly as possible.

The doorway to the office hung open, partially obscuring the interior. Holmes pushed the door the rest of the way, peering inside, muscles tensing in case of the need for flight.

But the office was empty.

Holmes went inside, moving faster now, he crossed to the desk and began pulling out drawers. He knew what he sought was here. Harry had told him as much, if not with words, then with every reflex movement he had made during their conversation. He had watched Harry's hands on the desk, stroking the wood, fist bunching on the smooth top. His eyes had never even drifted anywhere else in the room.

No, the earrings were here, somewhere in the desk.

The drawers proved a fruitless search. Homes made sure he turned each one over to check there was nothing taped to the bottom. His eyes scanned the solid wood frame. Expensive. Hand made. Selected especially for this place. There must be a secret drawer.

He searched for tell-tale scratches, worn lacquer, anything out of place, or slightly different than the rest. Next he ran his hands along the underside of the desktop, where the center drawer had been before landing in an unceremonious pile on the floor with the rest.

His finger slid across the button. He pressed and heard a click. A shallow drawer set into the inlay above the functional center drawer slid out. Holmes pulled it out. The earrings were there, deep forest emeralds like dark pools against the worn wood inside the drawer.

Holmes removed them gently and slid them into his pants pockets.

A floorboard in front of him creaked. Somehow in his haste he had missed the stealthy tread of his attacker, who now launched himself at Holmes, arms outstretched.

Sherlock had just enough time to identify the face of Harry Wilcox before the man crashed into him, catching Holmes around his middle and sending them both sprawling to the floor.

Harry dragged Holmes up by his shirt front, tossing him back into the wall. The impact snapped Holmes' head back, and the plaster cracked beneath it, sending a small shower of white dust down the back of his neck.

Harry made a grab for the earrings in Holmes' pocket, but the more agile man was able to duck around him and make a run for the door. Harry grabbed Holmes' collar on his way past, and yanked him off his feet. Both men fell to the floor again. Holmes continued to try to crawl in the direction of the hall, with Harry delivering sharp blows with his fist to Sherlock's ribs.

Holmes rolled onto his back, catching Harry with a kick to the hip that sent him sprawling back off of him onto the floor. Harry's head connected with the floor, causing him to bite his tongue. Blood dripped down the front of his white shirt. Both men scrambled to their feet.

"Those are mine," Harry growled.

Holmes was panting, his lungs burning with the smoke and hot air. He knew the fire was much closer. He could feel the heat coming up through the floor as it spread across the level below them.

"We need to get out of here, Harry. Is there another way out?"

Harry made another dash for him, but Holmes easily side-stepped it. Harry was choking now as well. He pulled his tie off and unbuttoned his collar. Holmes did the same, saying as he did "We can finish this outside if you really want, but we need to get out of here now, or we're both finished."

Harry's eyes narrowed, full of blood lust, but the heat and smoke were disabling. He coughed and covered his mouth with his hand, then his sleeve.

"There's a ladder to the roof farther down the hall. Around the corner."

"Go," Sherlock gestured to the door. "I'll follow you."

Harry led the way. He staggered and fell against the wall, and Holmes grabbed him and pulled him back to his feet, pushing him in the right direction. The smoke thickened as they went, and finally Holmes was forced to tear the sleeve off his shirt, tying it around his mouth.

"Damn," he groaned, getting down on his hands and knees and proceeding that way.

"What?" Harry yelled back at him, copying his idea to move forward closer to the ground.

"I'm running out of shirts." Holmes yelled forward to him.

Harry shook his head in disbelief.

They made several turns before almost colliding into what seemed like a dead end. Harry looked around frantically. "There was a ladder here, I swear!"

Holmes stood, peering up through the smoke. He could just make out a trap door in the ceiling, hopefully letting out into an attic or crawl space.

"Help me up," he commanded.

"You help me." Harry replied, standing next to him.

"And you'll stick around and help pull me up after?" Holmes frowned at him, beyond skeptic.

"Of course."

"You just tried to put my head through a wall."

"Because I caught you stealing my property."

"Your _stolen_ property. Actually, what am I saying? Of course you'll leave me. And we don't have time, so just shut up and give me a bloody boost."

Grumbling, Harry laced his fingers together and let Holmes place his foot in the stirrup created by his hands. With a grunt and shove Harry levered the detective into the air, high enough for Sherlock to push the trap door open and grasp the edges, hauling his weight the rest of the way up with his own strength.

Holmes found himself on a wooden catwalk that ran across the ceiling beams through an attic space. At the end of the building was a door. Holmes did not believe in assumptions, but he hoped fervently that it led to the roof.

He swirled around on his stomach and leaned back out the trap door, dangling his arms so that Harry could grab his hands. Together they hauled Harry upwards, until he could grab the edges of the trap door as Holmes had, and hike himself the rest of the way up.

Smoke came with them up into the attic space. The air was so heated that Harry's mustache wax had melted and run in a shinning streaks to his chin.

They crawled down the catwalk together, the wooden boards burning their palms, leaving splinters. On reaching the door, Holmes touched the knob tentatively. It was not hot. But it was locked.

He gestured for Harry to help him, and they both used their shoulders against it, hitting it twice, three times, and on the fourth it gave, spilling them out onto a long flat roof.

Holmes turned onto his back, dragging the sleeve away from his mouth and taking huge lungfuls of air. The rain splashed into his eyes and face, cooling his over-hot skin.

Harry climbed stiffly to his knees and looked around. Here and there holes were opening up in the surface of the roof, and flames licked over the edge, clawing their way up from the windows below.

"You've killed us. There's no way down."

Holmes rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. He took Harry by the arm and dragged him as close to the edge of the roof as they were able. There were still police and firemen swarming in the street below, a few of whom looked up at his shouts for help.

The blanket from earlier had been abandoned on the sidewalk, but after a good deal of yelling and gesturing, six officers picked it back up and set themselves under the spot with the least amount of flames sweeping over the edge of the roof.

Holmes matched their position, readying himself for the jump.

From her place in the doorway, Kit saw the two figures appear on the roof. She shot to her feet, straining to see if she could recognize Holmes as one of them. Yes, she realized, even in a panicked fight for life, one of the figures managed to come off as completely arrogant. Arrogant and overbearing.

She heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. As the figures approached the edge of the building, she could make out his face, covered in black soot, striped with sweat.

She crossed towards the officers preparing the blanket.

"It's too far," Harry coughed. "There's no way."

"This building is only two stories high," Holmes yelled back. "I'm not willing to do the calculations right at this minute, but I believe we have a good chance of landing unharmed. Or at least with non-fatal injuries."

Harry's eyes bulged. "I'm afraid of heights!"

"Oh," Holmes seemed to think about this. "Well then that's completely different."

He shoved Harry off the side of the building. It was, he had to admit to himself, a deeply satisfying experience.

Harry fell with a scream, arms grabbing at the air. He landed with a whoosh of air leaving his lungs, and the blanket sagged almost down to the pavement, then bounced back up several times.

"Here," one of the officers called. "We need more men to hold this. That was close."

Several more men came over to pitch in, as well as Kit, who's appearance, in the bustle and chaos, did not even illicit a raised brow.

The smoke obscured the view of the roof now. The figure of the detective was a hazy shimmer. All she could see was a shadow pausing at the edge.

She willed him over, pushing him with the force of her mind.

A moment later the shadow launched itself into the air and then plummeted down to the pavement. Kit had no time to think before the blanket snapped taut in their hands, and they all yanked upwards, keeping his body from impacting the ground.

Holmes' body bounced and rolled, spilled from the blanket onto the ground, scraping his hands and knees. His body turned over a few more times and came to a rest in the center of the street, flat on his back. Running feet avoided him. One child jumped directly over the supine form, on his way after a small dog that ran yapping amidst the myriad of legs.

Holmes stared up at the sky. Smoke floated across his view. The glow of flames turned the low clouds an angry boiling orange. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his whole body raw and painful. The world around him tilted and swirled. Gravel on the wet ground beneath him dug into his shoulder blades and hips. Nothing had ever felt so good in his life. Each stinging icy breath was precious to him.

A familiar face entered the field of his vision, staring down, mouth moving. Holmes knew Kit was asking him something, but he could not put the words together, nor did he want to.

Time seemed to lag behind him. He became aware that she was helping him to his feet, brushing the worst of the debris from his clothing, her movements busy and rough.

Ah, yes. Of course. She was angry at him. He had to remind himself that women tended to over-dramatize everything…

"…And if you ever so much as _think_ about throwing me out a window ever again…"

Yes. He would make sure to be far more gentle next time…

"I think I saw Mycroft earlier. He must be the one who called the police."

He made a mental note to incapacitate Mycroft. Had he a pencil he would write it on his cuff. But there was no pencil in sight…and his cuffs seemed to be missing.

"Mr. Holmes, are you listening to me?" She asked him.

He wrapped his arms around her desperately, crushing her against him. His hands splayed along her back, while he squeezed his eyes tight shut, pressing his face into the side of her neck. She smelled, like he must, overwhelmingly of smoke. Her unkempt hair brushed his face.

He pulled away from her, and before he could loose this spinning reckless feeling he leaned forward, and his lips bumped against hers, warm and dry, and far too hard.

Kit froze, unsure for a moment what had happened, her anger evaporating. He was too close to see, but she felt an aggravated breath huff out across her cheek, and realized that he was going to pull away, angered, or perhaps frightened at the perceived failure of what might be his first attempt at offering himself to someone.

Kit carded her fingers into the hair at the back of his head and drew his lips back, parting hers and biting hungrily into his mouth. He remained wooden for a moment, and then she felt his body relax against her, curling an arm around her waist, drawing her closer.

His face was dripping wet, and she wanted to drink the rainwater from his lips. Her other arm joined her first around his neck.

Homes breathed in her breath, the tip of his nose tracing gentle lines beside her own as he rubbed his lips gently over hers, delved deeper into her mouth. He was shocked at how quickly his body responded to her. The only thing that stopped him was his need for air.

They pulled away from each other, Holmes nearly loosing his balance and toppling into a passing water cart.

"We need to go," she told him, taking his face in her hands.

"But Miss Rushford, we must finish this discussion."

"They're arresting anyone they see coming out of that building."

He took her wrist. "Then we must run."

They walked together away from the building, across the street. One of the police officers waved after them.

"Miss, we'll be needing you to come with us. You and your man."

Holmes squeezed Kit's wrist. "Come on."

They broke into a run, heading down one of the side streets, away from the shimmering air, lazy with drifting ash and the pop and sizzle of wet wood. Rain beat down on them, slicking their hair and pasting their clothing to their legs and shoulders. A loud whistle sounded behind them. One alley gave onto another. The streets ran with water and debris.

They made a blind turn and found themselves in a side street, there the cobbles shone with oil brought up by the downpour. A costermonger had abandoned his cart at the side of the curb next to an iron red brick building. Rain beat a high pitched tattoo on the greased canvas cover that protected the open back. Holmes urged her over to it and dragged the cover back, helping her climb over the side into the bed.

Holmes climbed in after her and fell into the soft fragrant pile of abandoned turnip tops and cabbage leaves. He pulled the cover back over them and secured it the best he was able before collapsing back onto his shoulders beside her.

They lay still, trying to quiet their noisy breathing, listening to the street outside.

Another shrill whistle blared nearby, and someone cursed. Footsteps slapped past, and then several more chased heavy-booted after them. The sounds died, and Kit counted the heartbeats she could feel in her ears. There was only the tapping rain.

Holmes finally lifted himself to his elbow and looked down at her. He was still thrumming from the feeling of holding her against him, and eager to repeat the experience. Large wet drops fell from his hair onto her face. "Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm not all right!" She whispered back, a hysterical edge to her voice. "I'm distraught! I'm completely and utterly entangled with a raving madman! Just what the hell did you think you were doing?!"

"I couldn't leave without the earrings! It would have been a waste of a trip."

"You could have been seriously hurt!"

"But I wasn't. And…" He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the matching diamond and emerald drops, letting them dangle from his index finger for her to see. Even in the low light of the cart they dazzled her. He replaced them in his pocket.

"You _are_ insane," she said.

"Quite the contrary, my metal facilities are second to almost none…"

"And extremely arrogant…"

"It's not arrogance if one's belief in one's own skill level is justified."

She was shocked at how badly she wanted him.

He had kissed her hadn't he? She had not imagined the taste of brunt tobacco and bitter smoke?

"I have long held the belief," he continued, "that to underplay one's abilities is just as bad, if not worse, than…"

She lay a hand on the side of his cheek. He stopped speaking. Dark grey eyes searched hers, taking in the look on her face, their uncomfortable surroundings.

"Miss Rushford, what is this pathological need you have to do everything so differently from other women?"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me what you're thinking."

His eyes flicked over her face, and he paled. "That I could live off your mouth." He gave a short laugh. "Now what sense does that make when…"

She kissed him into silence, shivering as his tongue caressed her lips and inside her mouth. For the first time she felt as though she was touching him, the actual blood-warm man, beating somewhere under all the layers of clothing and manners and eccentricity. Full of secrets that she wanted to explore. She longed to savor the taste of him on her tongue. Her curiosity was boundless.

He must have felt the same, because he rolled her under him, his body humming, heartbeat bright and sharp against his ribs. She could feel it in her own chest. Their fingers tangled together, dragging, exploring, marking each other in ways only to be discovered later, directions on a map of a newly discovered foreign land. Each holding the fascination of the exotic for the other, the scent and feel of mystery, the delirious craving for pressure and release.

Kit pulled the nails of her good hand across his back, and was rewarded with a deep groan.

The cover of the cart pulled back with a snap, exposing their over-warm bodies to the cold night air.

A police officer stood frowning down at them.

"Here now, don't you bloody fools know there's a building on fire only a few streets over?"

For the first time ever, Kit saw Holmes rendered speechless. He blinked up at the man, looking for all the world like he was about to tell him that the entire city could burn down right now for all he gave a damn.

Kit spoke first. "No, officer, sorry. We didn't know."

He looked unsettled at such a proper voice emanating from what he assumed was a soaking wet street woman in tatters, and her dirty companion for the night. She knew he must be aware that they had been there. They were both covered in soot, Holmes was missing a sleeve from his attire, and she realized suddenly that she had lost her shawl.

The officer frowned, weighing the possibility that they were hardened criminals against the likely hood that such two would be found in a cart full of cabbage leaves.

Perhaps he and his missis had shared a few leafy encounters of their own, Kit thought, because he waved them on.

"Well, you'd best move on before you have cause to regret it."

"Yes, sir." Kit agreed immediately.

She clambered from the cart, gesturing for her companion to follow. The officer watched the tall man hop nimbly down, brushing at a few muddy streaks on his sleeves. The man tipped the officer a respectful bow, and then followed his lady companion down the street, offering her his arm, which she graciously accepted.


	13. Epilogue

_This was directly after The Musgrave Ritual. Before Holmes had even heard of Ricoletti of the club foot or his abominable wife; had reached the crowning glory of his career by recognizing the significance of a second stain upon a wooden floor, or entered into the grotesque and chaotic lives of people such as the pitiable Hilton Cubitt, or Grimsby Roylott of Stoke Moran._

 _This younger, more fanciful version of Holmes that I met that late night in 1882 shocked me, and made me wonder what else there was about my friend that he had deemed too secret to tell me. I was to learn later there was much my dear friend had left out._

 _In fact, at the time, I was still ignorant of who Mycroft Homes was. I was to remain unaware of his existence until many years later, when he enlisted our aid for a case that I would publish under the name of The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter. When Homes told me this story, he suggested that that man who had helped Miss Rushford and himself was an old school friend. A detail which even at the time raised my suspicions, since I knew that Holmes kept such small and exclusive company._

 _Now, many years after, I know it was Mycroft, and have written him in as such. Looking back, I smile in recognition of the stubborn inactivity so clear in my friend's description of him._

 _But what of Kit Rushford?_

 _Even that night I remember wracking my brain to see if there were any signs that I had skipped over that my friend had once had a woman in his life. I could find none. And yet, she must have existed. She must have left some kind of lasting, if hidden mark on Holmes._

 _As his story drew to a close I weighed all he said, intrigued by the mental image of my friend sitting on a park bench beside such a lady, at a respectful distance, enjoying the verdant landscape._

* * *

Kit scanned the vibrant green lawns around them, the statuary a few feet away from them, angles carpeted in soft moss. The arm of the metal bench beneath her hand prickled with rust. She sighed volubly, hoping to illicit some response from the silent man beside her.

Holmes said nothing, instead choosing to stare straight ahead, back ridged. He was properly dressed today, as impeccable as one could be on his somewhat underwhelming budget.

To Kit it was an unaccustomed sight, so used was she to seeing him wet, muddy, sooty, or in some other way indecent.

That was how he had looked when he escorted her to her own home the night of the fire, making sure she got safely inside, and even going so far as to lean on her door jamb momentarily, searched his mind for something coherent to say for several minutes before finally settling for the less satisfying option of turning on his heel suddenly and walking away.

Kit closed the door softly and leaned her back against it. Perhaps he was overwhelmed by smoke inhalation. Surely he would be back tomorrow.

But he wasn't.

Nor the next day.

She worried. She couldn't help herself, though by then she knew his absence had been a foregone conclusion, and that she had been foolish to allow herself to hope that he would change so vastly for her.

Perhaps the offending smoke inhalation was more serious than she had though?

Mycroft arrived on this second day, and proposed that after her strenuous activities of the last few days she might wish to see her doctor.

"Is Sherlock dead?" Was the first thing she could think to say as soon as she climbed into his cab next to him.

"Not to my knowledge, my dear. Why, what has he done now?"

"More precisely, what has he not done?"

"Ah. So he has failed to come and visit you."

"Is he honestly this dense? Or is he actually heartless?"

"I told you, Sherlock is not our family's most prized possession."

Mycroft gave her an apologetic smile, but she found that she was unable to muster one in return. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid that doesn't make it hurt any less."

"Have you ever read any Edward Gibbon, Miss Rushford?"

"All that is human must retrograde if it does not advance." She quoted.

Mycroft winced. "You and my brother have more in common than you know. I was thinking about his somewhat less fatalistic side. 'Hope, the best comfort of our imperfect condition'."

"It does not bother me that your brother is imperfect, Mr. Holmes. It bothers me that he is unwilling."

"Hmmm."

They conducted the rest of their drive in silence.

At one point, Mycroft's hand crept to cover hers, and she let it remain, enjoying the small comfort of human touch.

* * *

On the third day Holmes the younger knocked on her door. He looked alien to her, so completely dressed, holding a package under his arm. His face was clean shaven, though still scraped and bruised from their recent adventures. She almost reached out her hand to touch one of the cuts on the corner of his mouth.

"I hadn't realized…" She started. Holmes waved her off with a half-smile.

"They were well-hidden. I didn't realize myself until I had applied several buckets of water over my head." He shifted the package from one arm to the other. "I…was wondering if I could interest you in a walk in the park? I have something I very much want to discuss with you."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes, let me go and get my shawl."

There was very little going. She grabbed it from the stand beside the door. Holmes helped hold it for her one-handed, balancing the parcel in the other.

"I had meant to ask you where you learned to fight like that Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid that I forgot in all the excitement."

He gave her another of his half-smiles, happy for any excuse to draw his attention away from the proximity of his hands to her arms and back. "It is called Bartitsu. A mixed fighting style I have been studying for some years."

"You mean in addition to boxing and fencing?"

"Indeed. It uses aspects of both. One can never be too prepared."

"Or mysterious."

He declined to answer her jab, but kept his smile firmly in place.

The walk had been a pleasant but silent one, and it was only after a great deal of ambling through the streets before Holmes final led her to Trinity Square and gestured her towards a bench. Kit sat. The square was not large, with bright, though untended grass, and an imposing view of the Tower.

They continued their silent scrutiny of the scenery for almost ten minutes in complete silence. Kit considered asking about why he had neglected to even send her a message in the last three days, causing her to worry needlessly, but knew it was a hopeless endeavor. Holmes would speak when he was ready. She just prayed it would be sometime today. It was starting to get chilly.

"Miss Rushford," he said at last. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. What he said next did nothing to assuage her feelings of abandonment.

"I felt I owed it to you to tell you in person that I have decided to go to America."

Kit's hands tightened on her lap, but she tried to keep her voice even.

"Oh? In the near future?"

"On Sunday." He confirmed.

"Which Sunday?

"The 23rd."

"As in the day after tomorrow?"

"Indeed."

"Hmmm." She said. A picture of Mycroft making the same deep rumbling noise came to her mind, but she embraced it. What else could one really say to such an announcement?

"All right," she forced herself to say. "I wish you well, Mr. Holmes. I hope that I have nothing to do with your sudden decision to flee the continent."

"I'm afraid the decision has a great deal to do with you, Miss Rushford."

"I see," she said.

Well. That was final. Her lungs cried for air. She tried to take several slow deep breaths, but there was something in the way. Some obstruction in her throat that made her head light. She had steeled herself for this, knowing that he would leave her once her case was over, but she was still unprepared for the despair.

She wracked her memory. Everything that had conspired to lead them here had seemed so inevitable at the time. What had gone wrong? _He_ had kissed _her_ , not the other way around. The faint and familiar sparks of anger set in. She had the sudden overwhelming urge to take him by the shoulders and shake him. Even if she wept hysterically as she did it.

Holmes dared a sideways glance at her. She seemed placid enough. He had been ready for tears, for raging and other typically feminine displays of irrationality and displeasure. Instead her calm silence was making him sweat. He could feel the moisture gather under his collar and a stray drop tickle its way down his chest. Oddly, it hadn't seemed this hot when he had left his rooms earlier that day. Still, he refused to remove his coat. It would be a sign of how uncomfortable he was, and therefore a weakness.

A second glance discovered Kit now staring straight at him, hands primly in her lap, waiting. Every phrase he had practiced died on his tongue. His throat felt crowded with rocks.

"Well," he said, slapping his hands lightly against his knees and standing up. "I supposed we had best get back." He offered her his arm.

She grabbed the tail of his coat and pulled him back down onto the bench beside her. He bumped down, looking at her with startled amazement.

A young woman walking arm and arm with her lad gave them a surprised look as they crossed in front of the bench, her crinolines swishing against the gravel of the path before them. Kit gave her a glowing smile.

The moment the couple had passed she turned on Holmes.

"Miss Rushford, please, think of your hands," he stuttered.

"Oh, I do, Mr. Holmes. I continually think about how much I would love to wrap them around your throat."

"I'm sure the doctors would be against it."

"On the contrary, the doctors say my hands are healing very nicely. Mycroft accompanied me to my appointment yesterday. Did he not tell you?"

"Hmmmm." Holmes shifted uncomfortably. She was staring at him again.

"Will you tell me what it is that's on your mind Mr. Holmes, or will I use even more unladylike tactics?"

"Can you possibly still possess any?"

She pinched the lobe of his ear with her nails and twisted. Holmes' eyes bulged. His shoulders raised as he hissed and his entire body seemed to curl towards her.

"All right! All right! Miss Rushford! Enough!"

"You may call me Kit."

"Kit! Stop it!"

She did not.

"My Family lived on a farm when I was young!"

She released his ear, looking him a question. That was not what she had expected.

"The farmstead of Mycroft," He continued, putting a little distance between them on the bench. "We moved of course, many times, but some of my most formative memories are of the days of my adolescence I spent there before I went to Oxford."

"Go on."

Holmes readjusted his waistcoat, which was not out of place. He had removed his hat, and smoothed his fingers over his hair. When he spoke, his eyes were fixed at a spot on the ground near her feet. "I am aware that I am…confusing. That my behavior is…" He considered several choices before settling on "…inconstant. I do not have a talent for conversing with the fairer sex. I believe this has led me to inadvertently cause you grief."

"Correct."

His eyes flicked up to hers, storm grey, and for a moment he said nothing. When he began again she found that he had changed tactic.

"There was a young woman who worked for us. Her family lived in the area. We were near the same age."

Kit sat quietly, willing him to go on. His mouth opened several times to start, but he seemed unable.

"You can tell me, Sherlock."

He shook his head. "I can't." She sagged, but he took her hands in his and for the first time turned towards her. "But I want to." There was something in his voice that eased the sense of failure for her. "I have never, ever been tempted to tell anyone these things before. But I want to tell you. And I will. If you will allow me the time I need, I will."

"Of course, Sherlock. I understand."

And she did. Even though she was disappointed that he had backed away from her, she felt that coming so close was new territory for him.

"Thank you. And I don't mean I will tell you at some undisclosed moment years down the road. I mean soon. I wish for us to continue our association."

"Difficult on different continents."

"Which I why I propose that you also relocate to America. Temporarily of course."

Kit waited a moment, expecting him to correct himself. When he didn't she said the most intelligent thing she could summon out of herself under the circumstances.

"What?"

"Kit, I'm asking if you would like to…." Here he made several vague hand gestures. Some of them seemed to indicate a forward movement. "…. Allow me to visit you in a more official capacity. I'm aware that you have no parents for me to ask, so I'm asking you, if this would be something that would interest you."

 _"_ _What?!"_

"Dear God woman, we'll get nowhere if you insist on being this thick. I'm asking if I have your permission to court you. I propose you accompany me on an acting tour of the Americans, which is scheduled to last approximately eight months, and during that time, we find out if we are compatible, while at the same time being out of the hawk-like eyes of London society. It strikes me as the safest and most convenient option."

 ** _"_** ** _What?!"_**

Holmes leaned back from her on the bench, pressing one long finger over his lips. "I must admit, I expected you to be a trifle more communicative about this."

"Sherlock, there's no way I can accompany you."

"Not true. You have nothing holding you here."

"My job."

"Gone."

"My friends."

"Miss Tilby? I'm afraid what's best for her now is time to heal."

"I can't leave her destitute."

"Nor would I ask you to." He straightened, obviously pleased with himself. "I returned the earrings to the Atherbys. It turns out the reward was substantial."

Her eyes narrowed. "How much?"

"Enough to pay off Mr. Tilby's gambling debts. The police will hold him for a few more days I'm sure, but after that he is free to stay with his sister, as long as he doesn't get himself into any more trouble. He need fear no retaliation."

"But…how?"

"You were correct. After you saw Mycroft at the Diogenes that day he did take your suspicions to the police. In his defense, he warned them not to go into the warehouses blind, but there is an inspector there, Lestrade I believe, who was apparently unwilling to listen to his strenuous objections.

"Mycroft felt horribly to blame for exposing you to such danger. I note that he did not include my own danger in his apology." Holmes sniffed, then continued.

"So when I asked him to help me track down the real owner of the John Street warehouses, the man that The Tash was in the resurrection business with, who got him the job as a collector in the first place, Mycroft was happy to use his influence. I met with him yesterday, and although he is assuredly the lowest of vermin, he is vermin with a keen business acumen. He values money over petty revenge. He agreed that his dealings with the Tilby family were at an end."

"But…" Kit floundered. Perhaps he had an answer to all her objections. Half-heartedly, she tried one last time. "My home."

"Easily packed up. Mycroft has already agreed to make all the arrangements to have your things stored after you leave. All you need to worry about it what to bring."

"How can I accompany you on an acting tour with a company that I don't belong to? You can't take me along like a member of a harem!"

"Miss Rushford, please." He seemed comically shocked by her suggestion. "I've already arranged all that. I told the producer that a stipulation of my acceptance of the contract was that he also find a job for you. It turns out that they were in need of a Stage Manager. Something that I think you will be very good at."

"But why on earth would he give me a job without even meeting me?"

"Desperation, my dear. And because I told him you were my wife."

"Sherlock!" She started to her feet, where she hovered momentarily, looking down at his open, surprised face. She swayed for a moment, unsure about the best course of action, until the need for flight took over and she found herself turning, hurrying down the path, heedless of which direction she was going.

She heard the scuff of footfalls behind her, and then his hand was on her shoulder, drawing her back, placing himself as an obstruction to further forward movement.

"It's impossible." She blurted.

"No, it's not."

"Sherlock, I cannot pretend to be your wife."

"But that's precisely what you've been doing for the last few days. You appear unharmed by the experience."

She shoved him, hard. Sherlock stumbled a few steps back, catching himself by grabbing the elbow of a greying statue standing by the side of the path.

"I'm sorry," he said after they both had a chance to take a few calming breaths. "I didn't mean for it to come out that way. Listen, let me explain. My offer and the job are two separate things. I did lie in order to make sure the position went to you without question, but not because I expect gratitude. Because I know you need a way to make an income until you are able to play again. I wanted you to continue to have your independence. I also know you will be very well suited to it. You have a compassionate nature, and a most amazing ability to keep your head in a crisis. You will excel at the job, and I believe find it very enjoyable."

Here he took a deep breath, but plunged on before he could change his mind.

"My offer of courtship is sincere. If you say no, I will be… well, it's unthinkable to me what I will be, but you need to understand that the position does not depend on it. It is yours whether I am there or not, whether you ever choose to talk to me again or not. Tell me not to go, and I will stay home. Tell them the truth about us the moment you get on the boat. There are no strings."

She could feel the tears starting. How did he always manage to do this to her? Twist himself so tightly into her chest and yet miss the point completely. He was close enough for her to smell that combination of aftershave and pomade. His breath was warm and heavy with tobacco. His hand remained on her shoulder. She knew she could not stand it. Being close one minute, and then pushed farther away the next. It would tear her heart, but she could not put herself in that situation.

"This isn't fair, Sherlock. Every time I feel like I know where I stand I wake up the next day to find that you've changed your mind. You can't just offer me exactly what I want one day and then rub my face in the fact that it's not true the next. Don't you care about my feelings at all?"

He nodded.

She felt her shoulders sag. "That's it?"

He drew a deep ragged breath, but did not move. Kit sidestepped him and continued more slowly down the path.

If she hadn't been listening, she would not have caught his words. They came after her, just audible above her own racing heart.

"Miss Rushford, what I feel for you I feel in my liver."

She stopped.

The voice continued.

"I feel you in my lungs, in my joints, in my blood, and in my bone."

She turned to look at him. He stood where she had left him, hands clutched into fists at his sides. His expression was not a kind one. "Woman, you have infected me. Each heartbeat makes your hold stronger. And I know I have done the same to you. You can deny it, but I know it's a lie. Just as much a lie as if I told you that I was able to go on as before without you."

He approached her then, palms held up as thought to show he was weaponless.

"If we try and fail, so be it," He was too close now. Kit took a step back. "But don't you dare walk away from me without trying."

Kit lifted her chin to glare at him fully, unwilling to let his nearness silence her.

"I have always tried with you, Sherlock. You were the one who didn't show up."

The muscle in his jaw twitched.

She covered her wane smile with one hand. Poor man. He really was completely hopeless.

"Will you think about it?" He persisted.

"I will," she promised. "Now will you be so kind as to escort me home, please?"

His eyes never left hers as he offered her his arm. "It would be my pleasure."

He escorted her out of the park.

* * *

They walked to her door in silence, though it was not as strained as she had worried it might be. She could feel Holmes' arm vibrating under hers, and he said nothing until she had her door open and was turning to bid him a confused goodbye.

It was then that he offered her the package he had been carrying under his arm.

"Miss Rushford, this is yours as well. There was enough reward money left over for me to make an investment. I want you to have this, and understand that it is yours regardless of the future."

"Mr. Holmes, please, that's really not necessary."

"I insist."

She took the package, and looked up at him once more.

"May I ask that if you are willing to accompany me on this adventure that you send me a telegram at my lodgings, by, say, tomorrow morning?"

She nodded once.

"If no telegram arrives I will understand and not bother you again."

"No…"

"And, may I also ask…"

"Yes?"

"May I….?"

He had no idea how to proceed. Nothing worked right around her. Nothing was simple or straightforward. There was nothing painless. Still, it was a pain he wanted. He wanted somehow to show her how desirous he was of her help, how ready for evisceration, provided it was she holding the knife.

He held out his hand to her and she wordlessly slid her own palm into his. He lifted it to his face and did not kiss, but lay it alongside his cheek, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth.

He released her gently and stepped back, bowing. A moment later he was gone.

Kit closed her door behind him. The package she took to the sitting room, where she unwrapped it in front of her coal fireplace.

Her hands stilled as the paper fell away to reveal the violin case. She opened it carefully. The varnish and carving spoke for itself, but she lifted the instrument and read the label inside.

 _Anno 1746, Carlo Bergonzi  
fece in Cremona_

She had never realized before that such pain and exhilaration could go hand in hand.

* * *

 _Here my friend stopped. He had nothing left. The fire had all but died, and the room was so devastatingly quiet that my first loud in-drawn breath startled us both. Holmes jerked his head in my direction, and then unfolded himself from his armchair, standing and stretching his long frame to its full height._

 _"_ _So?"_

 _"_ _Watson?"_

 _"_ _There must be more."_

 _"_ _Of course there's more, but that is enough for tonight. I find myself quite overwhelmed with the need to sleep."_

 _"_ _Holmes, don't be an ass, was she able to decide?"_

 _"_ _Watson, please. Of course she decided. She is an adult after all. And logically, that question doesn't even make sense. Whatever the outcome was a decision."_

 _He rolled his shoulders and started to walk towards his bedroom. I swiveled my body around in the chair to watch him go._

 _"_ _Damn it Holmes. You know what I mean! Did she go with you?!"_

 _"_ _It's nearly morning, old Boy, and you're the one who's always lecturing me on my need for better sleeping habits. I will tell you all, but on another day. Trust me Watson, I won't forget it all between now and then."_

 _"_ _Holmes?" My voice was very serious._

 _He answered in just as serious a tone. "Watson."_

 _"_ _You did see her again?"_

 _"_ _Yes, Watson, I see her every night, in one dream or another. Miss Rushford is nothing if not persistent."_

 _He entered his bedroom and shut the door._

 _I stayed on in my chair, waiting for the grey of dawn to filter in past the gaps in the curtains, heralding in another day._

* * *

 ** _That's it y'all. Done and dusted. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read it and give me such great feedback. This was my first FanFic, and y'all made the experience an amazingly supportive and positive one._**

 ** _Now I've just got to decide if I've got a sequel in me somewhere._**

 ** _Leave a thought in the box below!_**

 ** _Cheers!_**


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